


Dirk and Jane: We Solve Mysteries

by Quilly



Series: Life with Dirk and Jane [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirk Strider is the best singer in all the land, Dirk and Jane are an awesome auspistice, Dirk is her Watson, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gen, Jane is Sherlock, John is not the best auspistice, M/M, Midnight Crew - Freeform, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, TW: Spousal murder, TW: Stabbing, TW: suicidal thoughts, am i homestuck yet, any time is a good time for black flirtation janie, craptastic action sequences are my life, human pale is not like troll pale, i used incestuous slurry in a casual conversation, in which everyone is reborn into the new planet, lord how do i handle all this palesmut, obviously by throwing in mobster fight scenes, welcome to Altville, where the quadrants are different and the points don't matter!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Jane Crocker, and you're starting to understand why people say you're the one who needs a moirail.</p><p>In which Dirk Strider is a nervous mother hen with golden pipes, Jake English and Roxy Lalonde have met their matches for sexual tension, Karkat Vantas and his romcoms are pervasive, Gamzee Makara may or may not have a little black crush, John Egbert ruins all of the undercover shenanigans, John Egbert's car is tragically lost in the line of duty, the Midnight Crew are devious scoundrels, and Jane Crocker gives everyone heart attacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirk and Jane: We Solve Mysteries

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know, that's a lot of tags to go through, but if you have squicks about blood, domestic murder, suicidal thoughts, stabbing, or quadrant vacillation, go no further! Ye have been warned!
> 
> NOW WITH A COVER THANKS TO THE LOVELY TOASTYHAT!: http://25.media.tumblr.com/fcc917d1fa69582f5a6ba0c0603ff77b/tumblr_mnfvqv0dvi1rpgispo2_1280.jpg

Your name is Jane Crocker, and you’re pretty sure it started with Li’l Seb.

 

Li’l Seb is the nickname Dirk gave your gun, which he got for you as a Please Don’t Do That Again present after the last time you leapt on a serial killer’s back and came away with a black eye and the killer in cuffs. Vantas checked your license thoroughly, spat, and told you not to shoot your eye out. You grinned and made no such promises.

 

Well…ever since you got Li’l Seb, you’ve been a little cockier than usual. It’s not your fault that you pull off the leg holster better than Jake! (Or so Dirk tells you, and you’ve learned to stop disagreeing with him and just take the compliment.) This is probably your worst idea to date—your legs are short and the distance between the buildings is long—but your perp is getting away with the diamonds and you won’t get paid if he does.

 

So…you jump.

 

You barely make it, tuning out Dirk’s bitten-off oath and focusing on pumping your body for more speed. One hand is at your hip, but you know if you fire on him it’ll just get you in trouble. Even if it would be _so_ much easier to catch up if he’s worrying about a bullet in his calf. He looks back at you, scowls, and disappears over the other side of the building he’s running across. You skid to a stop, chewing on your lip and furious with yourself.

 

That changes to delight when you see that down in the alley Dirk’s on it, the robber in a headlock and not going anywhere (bless that freakish upper body strength of his). You laugh.

 

“Nice work, Strider!”

 

“Let’s get him back to the station,” Dirk calls up, “and then you and I are going to have a little _chat_.”

 

You don’t like the sound of that at all.

 

Once your robber is locked up, your client contacted, and the transfer’s gone through, you and Dirk return home, collapsing onto the couch. You unbelt the holster and throw it haphazardly on the coffee table.

 

“Watch it,” Dirk mutters. “Make sure the safety’s on before you go chucking your firearms.”

 

“It is, you worrywart.” You double-check, just in case. Yep.

 

You both sit there and breathe for a while, and it’s nice; it gives you a moment to look Dirk over and make sure he’s okay, too. Bruise on his cheek, probably from the perp’s elbow before Dirk subdued him. Slightly scruffy, so he was up too late again, if he slept at all. Can’t see through the shades to know for sure. Favoring his right shoulder, so his wound must be acting up on him again. You’ll need to see about loaning him your heating pad. Toying with his phone a little, so worrying about Dave.

 

You let yourself feel a slight pang of jealousy. You wish you were brave enough to get in touch with your own little bro.

 

His eyes flick towards you. “What’s up?”

 

“Nothing,” you shrug, standing and making your way to the kitchen. Dirk follows, sitting up at the bar and watching you get down ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. His mouth twitches slightly.

 

“Jane.”

 

“Dirk.” You mimic his tone. Maybe slightly exaggerated.

 

“So are we going to talk about how you need to stop recklessly endangering yourself, or are you going to bake and avoid me while I make passive-aggressive comments on the couch again?” Dirk asks.

 

You avoid his eyes. “It wasn’t reckless.”

 

“Jane, if you look ‘reckless’ up in the dictionary, you jumping ridiculous distances would be the picture next to it,” he intones. “Followed by you piggybacking on a guy who murders people with razors, followed by those gross bacon and jelly sandwiches you keep making when you’re stressed.”

 

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” you grin. “Dirk, those are the just the hazards of the job. I haven’t died in all the years I’ve been doing this. I’m fine.”

 

He doesn’t speak, but he does walk around the counter and pin you to it by putting his hands on either side of you and leaning in. If you look hard enough you can see his eyes through the shades. He definitely didn’t get any sleep last night, and he probably doesn’t want you to know if he’s invading your personal bubble with them on.

 

“ _I’m_ not fine,” he says clearly. “If I have one more heart palpitation because you did something dumb, I’ll have to start walking around in a wheelchair because, oh no, heart palpitation turned into a stroke.”

 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you retort.

 

He sighs, leaning his forehead against yours.

 

“Be a little more careful, would you?” he says, in that soft voice that does funny things to your chest. “It’s my job to worry, but you shouldn’t make it quite so easy.”

 

You wrap your arms around his waist and plant a brief kiss on the corner of his mouth. You don’t like it when he worries so much, because he’s always carrying the weight of the world on him, but you’re not sure how else to go about and get results. You guess you could’ve just told Dirk to cut him off around the other building…but there would’ve been no guarantee that the robber would have dropped off if you hadn’t been chasing him, and—

 

He headbutts you, gently. “Earth to Crocker. We got a deal here?”

 

You let him go and lean back, grinning. “I’ll certainly try, Strider.” You wave him off and return to your baking. “If my phone rings, tell them I’m busy, would you?”

 

“Roger that,” he grins, scrubbing at his face. You peek at him from beneath your lashes.

 

“Get some rest,” you order him. “In case something monumentally important comes up, I need you not falling asleep on your feet.”

 

“I’m fine,” he says vaguely, and a few minutes later he turns on the TV. You bite your lip, but don’t push the issue.

 

Your mind wanders as you mindlessly go through the recipe; it’s an old one, one your dad swore by. John never much cared for all the cakes you and Dad liked, but these cookies were like the Holy Grail to him. They were an after-school staple, from kindergarten to tenth grade.

 

Thinking about John and how young he was—how young you were—that rainy July afternoon never gets easier, and by the time you get the first batch in the oven you hunker down on the floor by the cabinets to sob as silently as you can into your hands. No need to bother Dirk with this, you’re just being silly and sentimental.

 

He snores a little on the couch, and you wipe your eyes, get a hold of yourself, and stand up, hoping the redness will have faded by the time he wakes up.

 

==>

 

Dirk doesn’t wake up until the next morning, which makes you slightly suspicious; he’d never been the most regular of sleepers, but if he’s going days again you’re going to start sneaking sleeping pills into his soda. He raps on your doorjamb while you’re trying to get warm under the covers again after going to the bathroom, and you grin at him, scooting over and patting the space next to you. He sighs, like you’ve asked him to do the most tedious thing in the world, but has a seat anyway.

 

“Why’d you let me sleep so long?” he grumps.

 

“Because you need sleep to function,” you reply, taking one of his hands and playing with it, splaying his fingers with your fingertips and feeling the calluses. “Any calls for me?”

 

“Not yet,” he shrugs, “but I haven’t checked the blog or the email yet, so we might have something lined up.”

 

Ah, the blog. Dirk’s idea, and as his idea it’s his responsibility. He calls it PR; you call it a nuisance, but it’s where the majority of your paying cases come from so you don’t complain much about it anymore. He lets you fiddle with his fingers a little longer, then grasps your hand and pulls you upright. You hang limp as possible, grumbling.

 

“Up and at ‘em, lazybones,” he says.

 

“No,” you grumble, letting him drape your arms across his shoulders and leaning against his chest while your lower half remains kneeling on your bed. “Don’t wanna.”

 

You haven’t been able to goof off like this since your dad was alive, and you think the only reason Dirk tolerates it is because he kind of knows. He lets you grumble into his shirt for a few minutes more, then tickles your sides. Even as you jerk back and shriek, you start grinning. Dangerous maneuver, Strider.

 

Particularly when he’s more ticklish than you are.

 

He knows it’s coming, of course; already he’s high-tailing it into the living room, ready to engage in a merry game of tag around the couch. You’re perched on his back and tickling him into oblivion with his head buried in a couch cushion when the door bursts open and you both look up, panic-stricken and slightly guilty.

 

Detective Karkat Vantas is staring from your doorway, his cheeks turning a progressively brighter red—impressive, for a troll, their thick skin usually takes a lot of stress to accrue enough blood to show the color—and you belatedly remember you’re in a stolen tank top and pair of boxers. Dirk is still in his clothes from yesterday, so at least he’s decent. You and Dirk stare at Detective Vantas for what feels like a full five minutes before your brain engages.

 

“Don’t look at me!” you yell, chucking a throw pillow at his stupid interfering face and launching yourself back into your bedroom to change. You must’ve forgotten to lock the door when you went to bed last night, or maybe Dirk went out for something when you were asleep. Either way, the fact that someone intruded feels an awful lot like all those times back when you tried to do college and your roommate neglected to use the thoughtful “Do Not Disturb” sign you’d made for her, only in reverse. Also you’re in your pajamas and that is not the dignified way to appear before someone who you work with sometimes.

 

Once you’re dressed and feel like you can walk out without flushing, you do so, and if a hint of pink makes its way across your face you ignore it. Vantas is seated in the armchair, looking ruffled but his cheeks their regular gray. Dirk’s shades are perfectly straight and his hair is as smoothed back as he’s going to get it, perched calmly in the corner of the couch. You sit on the opposite end of the couch and focus on the troll instead.

 

“Detective,” you nod. “What brings you by this morning? Can’t be a case, you don’t look nearly urgent enough.”

 

“Not a case,” he confirms. “I…uh…have a favor to ask.”

 

You blink, then focus. _Wearing his suit jacket, so he didn’t come from the office, he never wears it going to and from there unless on a case, which he’s clearly not. Tie askew. Looks like he’s been chewing on it. Shadows under the eyes are darker and have a little bit of a scarlet tinge, so more stress than usual._

 

It clunks into place a second later. _The trial._

 

“Does it have something to do with Gamzee?” you ask, keeping all heat out of your voice. Your beef with the juggalo is personal and just between you and him (or, between you and you; you can’t say that you’ve been in his presence enough to let your deep-rooted dislike be more than a glare and pointed ignoring).

 

“It might,” he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck and rolling his shoulder. “Uh…the trial moved through pretty fast. Highblood and all. Terezi’s not used to being on the defense, and not for her old kismesis, but she pushed it through.” There’s a tinge of pride and affection in his voice. You stifle a grin. “Verdict wasn’t that great, though. I mean, it is—he’s going into therapy and not to jail—but…” he sighs, and it’s such a bone-weary sound you want to hug him or something. “Gamzee’s bloodline has a pretty unique ability, a form of mind control called the chucklevoodoos.” He snorts. “Pretentious psycho-clowns. Anyway, there’s a lot of history of highbloods brainwashing people in their quadrants, so me and Terezi are gonna be going through some remedial therapy of our own.”

 

“And?” you prompt when he starts chewing on his lip.

 

“Well…they’re not going to let me see him until I get the all-clear,” he says hesitantly, and your stomach starts to sink into your toes. “Which should take a week or so. Maybe less, because, come on, mutant blood in the house. I doubt he could chucklevoodoo me if he tried.” He snorts again, and you glance at Dirk. His expression is unreadable as ever, but his shoulders are taut.

 

“Vantas.”

 

“I’m not allowed back into my—our—hive until after it’s been thoroughly checked and pronounced highblood-free,” he continues, and though it’s not where you thought the conversation was going, you still feel wobbly and nervous. “So…uh…could I crash here? Just for a few nights?”

 

You look at Dirk again. He jerks his head a little.

 

“Excuse us for a moment, Detective,” you say sweetly, and follow Dirk into the kitchen.

 

“I don’t have a problem with it,” you say immediately, keeping your voice as low as possible. Darn trolls and their heightened senses. “For a second, I thought he wanted us to go see Gamzee for him or something.”

 

“Yeah,” Dirk snorts. “If it’s just for a few days, I guess I’m cool. He’s going to have to get used to sleeping on a couch.”

 

“Few nights of that won’t kill him,” you grin, glancing at Vantas, who is staring entirely too casually into the distance with his ears cocked.

 

“So does that mean we need to up our pale game here?” Dirk asks, and you stifle a giggle against your mouth. “Show him how it’s really done?”

 

“Only if he gets unbearable,” you laugh, then look back at the armchair. “We’re fine with it, Vantas, but if the neighbors start to complain we’re throwing you out.”

 

He visibly relaxes, slinking into the armchair.

 

“Though if you don’t mind me asking,” you continue, “why not bunk with Terezi?”

 

To your immense satisfaction, he goes red and sputters a thirty-minute diatribe that boils down to “none of your stupid business.”

 

==>

 

The blog is empty and the email account is empty (and by “empty” you mean “devoid of work”, because there are plenty of comments and emails that are little more than invasive questions about your living situation and plain keymashing), so you decide to go grocery shopping. Normally you wouldn’t have an accomplice on this venture, but Vantas—Karkat—has been jittery all afternoon since he went back and fetched his duffel from his cruiser, so you take pity on him when he insists on coming with you. He’d know best what he likes eating, anyway.

 

You can tell something is bothering him, but resolve to let him bring it up himself. You’re his friend, after all, and he tends to react badly when you say something that hints at his true thoughts when he hasn’t said anything. A lot of people do that, actually. Not your fault most people are unbearably easy to read. So you pile another three boxes of assorted brownie mixes into the cart (one with grubs that you think Karkat might like) and wait.

 

He waits until you’re headed back, the cruiser laden down with groceries, before he takes his teeth out of his lip and speaks.

 

“I’m…worried about him,” he says softly, and if you didn’t know that it had different connotations for trolls than for humans you’d rub his shoulder comfortingly. “Who knows what trouble he could get into while I’m not there? I just…want to take him _home_.”

 

“Karkat,” you say gently, “it’s alright to be worried. You’re his moirail. You’re supposed to be with him in stressful situations, and therapy is probably going to be one of those for him.”

 

“I know!” he snarls, fists tightening on the steering wheel. “I don’t get why these nooklickers don’t get that _he wouldn’t do that to me_. We’ve been pale since we were practically wrigglers, since before he even knew he needed one!”

 

“I thought troll pale worked different than human pale,” you say thoughtfully. He groans.

 

“Yes, let’s get into an off-topic discussion about your stupid human imitation of moirallegiance as compared to the actual thing while I’m trying to bare my soul here, Crocker,” he grumps. “That’s exactly what this conversation needs.”

 

“I’m sorry, it’s just—how could you be pale for him, when he didn’t need a moirail yet?” you ask, and you know you’re treading dangerous water by the way his ears are turning red. “Sorry. Forget I said anything. Please continue.”

 

He stews for another few minutes before saying, in a smaller voice than before, “I should be there with him.”

 

This time you throw cultural differences to the wind and give him a hug as soon as you both exit the cruiser. He’s stiff and doesn’t really hug you back other than to give you an awkward pat on the head.

 

“One more thing,” you say, grabbing grocery bags. “You didn’t ask to stay with us just for our excellent human baking, did you?”

 

Karkat turns slightly pink. “Uh…”

 

“It’s okay,” you smile. “I know sometimes it helps trolls to be around other quadranted people. Helps the loneliness, I mean.” No, you didn’t know that. You’re just guessing. Educatedly. Because Karkat Vantas is the kind of troll who watches rom-coms religiously and turns into a snuggle-slut when he’s lonely, and _that_ you know from experience.

 

He turns a slightly brighter shade. “Um.”

 

“We’ll just have to demonstrate to you why our human version of moirallegiance is so much better than the troll version,” you wink, and laugh all the way back up the stairs as Karkat goes off.

 

In fact, you’re laughing and he’s yelling until you walk into the apartment and Dirk scoops all the grocery bags out of your hands, deposits them on the bar, and sweeps you into a dipping hug. You swoon, hand to brow.

 

“Oh, Dirk,” you sigh.

 

“Oh, Jane,” he rumbles, and you rub noses, which feels weird, but you hope it’s sickeningly sweet from a certain troll’s point of view.

 

“Oh my gog, get a pile!” Karkat yells. You and Dirk burst out laughing and go to put the groceries away.

 

==>

 

Because Dirk is a Strider and apparently Striders and Karkat Vantas have an age-long battle of who can outsnark whom, Dirk is a little touchy-feely-er than usual during Karkat’s stay, at least for the first couple of days when still _no_ new cases have come in and Karkat doesn’t have anything that needs your help. He purrs in his sleep and it’s excruciatingly cute. He also likes your brownies and hogs the bathroom in the mornings, and you feel a little guilty noticing so much when you both already have moirails, but _still_. No one said it was against the law to notice your grumpy friend can be adorable at times.

 

He’s been there for four days and there have been a total of five one-sided screaming matches when you get an email.

 

“Jane,” Dirk calls, and his voice is sharp, not cloying or teasing, and Karkat cuts off mid-rant, still shrugging on his suit jacket.

 

“Case?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder to see his laptop screen.

 

Yes, it is, and it looks interesting. You scan the contents of the email, then straighten up.

 

“Something I should be worried about?” Karkat says casually.

 

“When the only bolded line in the entire email is ‘no police’, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Go, you’re going to be late.”

 

“Whatever, I am not,” he grumbles. “Uh…take it easy out there, Crocker. Strider.”

 

“Aw, dude, I didn’t know you cared!” Dirk cries, wiping an imaginary tear from under his shades, and Karkat hisses and slams the door behind him in the most mature display of dislike you’ve ever seen. The maturity rolling from that exit is almost overwhelming. You giggle. Apparently Dirk is rubbing off on you.

 

“Shall we go?” you ask breezily.

 

“We shall go,” he nods, retreating into his room to print the email and giving it to you to study on the way over.

 

From what the email can tell you, your client is a worried husband who thinks his wife is being stalked. She won’t talk to him about it—probable marital trouble—but she’s acting jumpy and refuses to go anywhere outside of their house. You’ve got nothing better to do, so you (and clearly Dirk) think that a courtesy call to see if the case is worth something might even be the safe thing to do. Make sure everything _really_ is okay, or _really_ needs your attention.

 

There’s also an attached picture, and at first it looks like Alternian. You’re a little rusty in your troll alphabet, but even you can tell after a few minutes that it’s either not really Alternian or a bastardized form of it; it looks like it’s got some human language sprinkled in there, though it doesn’t look like something you know. An ancient modification, maybe? Or a puzzle? The caption says it’s a letter the wife received on the day of a particularly nasty fight and freak-out, and there are more like it in her office shredder. Your brow furrows. Clearly the wife understands what they mean; maybe she’d be open to your help, woman to woman.

 

Dirk parks his crappy Scion (which is a weird maroonish-purple color) about a block away; being unexpected, you don’t want to draw too much attention to yourselves.

 

“Any theories yet, Janie?” Dirk asks, and you shrug.

 

“Nothing substantial. Can’t do much without all the facts,” you say idly. “It’s the blue house, right?”

 

“I think so. 103 Verdure Street.”

 

You take a moment to really drink in the suburban street you’re walking through. Once upon a time, you wanted something like this—small square house with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids and a dog, a loving husband, and spending your days perusing home décor magazines and baking cakes for the neighbors. You’re coming to understand that the peaceful life isn’t something you’re much cut out for anymore. Dirk’s about the closest thing you’re ever going to get to that hardworking husband, much as it pains and embarrasses you to admit it. Not that you would much mind…never mind. You have other things to be thinking about than an impossible future.

 

“Upstairs lights are on,” Dirk notes as you get closer. “Do you think maybe—”

 

At that precise moment a gunshot from the house you’re approaching shatters your concentration, followed quickly by a second one. You don’t think, and neither does Dirk—you both sprint towards the house as the neighbors poke heads out of doors and windows.

 

Dirk’s legs are longer and he beats you there; by the way he freezes and tilts his head to the side, you know you’re too late.

 

Your clients are a human man and a troll with sunny yellow blood, and they are both clearly dead. You blink, then reach for your phone.

 

“Detective?” you say, feeling very ragged around the edges, when Karkat picks up. “I need to take back what I said earlier, about police involvement.”

 

“Why? Are you trussed up in the trunk of a car again?”

 

“No, you insensitive prick. My clients are dead.” Your breath leaves you in a whoosh, and you sag against the door jamb. “They just killed each other.”

 

==>

 

Their names were Albert and Neyvah Hanson, and they’d been married for five years. You sit on the curb, staring hard at the picture of the letter, while Karkat and his team rope off the crime scene and trample all your lovely evidence. That might be a little harsh, but your clients are _dead_ because you couldn’t get there fast enough. The paper wrinkles a little as your fingers contract in response to the catch in your throat. No, dangit. You’re _not_ going to cry this time. You need to _think_.

 

It takes a few minutes and a solid throat-clearing for you to notice the floating cup of coffee in front of your face, and you accept it but don’t drink it, returning to your study of the puzzle. Dirk settles down next to you.

 

“This,” you say, “is ridiculous.”

 

“Jane.”

 

“It looks just like Alternian, which is what bothers me most. I can _almost_ read it,” you frown. Dirk shifts a bit closer.

 

“Are you okay?” he whispers. You jerk your head and shrug.

 

“Doesn’t matter. We have a murder investigation on our hands now.”

 

“Assuming Vantas will let us on,” he reminds you.

 

“He wouldn’t dare keep me out of this,” you reply. “I need to see the original copy of this letter and the others. Is Nubby McGrumps coming this way yet?”

 

Dirk checks over his shoulder. “Not yet. Wait for the high-pitched whine of hot air escaping from his gaping mouth-hole.”

 

You crack a grin, but don’t tear your eyes away from the paper.

 

It’s close to an hour and you’re going nowhere fast on the puzzle when Karkat finally deigns to come see you and Dirk. You don’t jump up and start berating him, you don’t burst into tears and scream “ _Why_ ” at the universe, you simply wait for him to fill you in. You don’t even stand up, waiting until he sighs impatiently and parks on the other side of you.

 

“I’ve been advised,” Karkat says carefully, “to tell you to keep your nose out of it.”

 

Your blood boils and you open your mouth, but Karkat waves his hand at you.

 

“While I agree to a point,” he stares at you pointedly, “since this seems like an open-and-shut domestic violence case at first blush, I can’t figure out why an apparently happy couple would resort to something like this without a very big reason.”

 

“And you think I could,” you say, deadpan.

 

“You’ve got the email, you’ve got a copy of some stalkerish letters, and you’ve got a smarter head on your shoulders than I do, so why not,” he sighs. “I still reserve the right to kick you off.”

 

“Why should this case be any different?” you say lightly, standing. “I don’t need to see the bodies. Take me to the wife’s study.”

 

Dirk following, you walk behind Karkat into the house and weave past a host of forensics specialists taking pictures and glaring at you behind their goggles. You dig out your latex gloves from your pocket and adjust your glasses and ignore them.

 

The house around you looks like it belonged to a mostly-happy couple, overflowing with cheerful pictures and the occasional love note on a Post-It. A quick glance at the bedroom, which has just one human bed (surprising, but not unheard of), appears to have been occupied by two people, though you’ll need to double-check the couch. According to the email, the wife had been jittery only for a week or two, so perhaps the signs wouldn’t have been quite as prominent if one spouse or the other had been sleeping elsewhere…then again, your focus is the study right now, not the bedroom, though that will come later.

 

A few of your questions are answered when you see that the office, which is probably the largest room in the house, has a recuperacoon in the corner, one that looks recently slept in. Your brow furrows. Whatever had been in the notes must’ve really been scaring Mrs. Hanson, since sopor slime contains strong chemicals geared towards relaxing ferocious trolls. It also tastes faintly of lemon-lime Skittles (thanks again for that life lesson, roommate from college). But that’s not the important thing, you have to focus.

 

The office is neat and looks like a scrapbooking nightmare, all pastel colors and rubber stamps. However, there is something that intrigues you—namely, the oversized wedding photo on the wall. Your old-fashioned sensibilities tingle.

 

“Dirk, could you take down that frame, please?” you ask, indicating the picture. He complies, and—bingo—there’s a small safe embedded into the wall. Going by the whiff of paint and plaster that comes off of it when the frame is taken down, quite recently, too.

 

“Any ideas what’s in there?” Dirk asks.

 

“Several.” You walk up to the safe. “I’ll need the birth dates, anniversary date, and social security numbers of the victims, Detective Vantas.”

 

“Or just a scrap of paper with the code on it?” he grunts, holding aloft such an item. “It was in the wife’s pocket. Not sure what it is and it doesn’t look like a phone number, so maybe it’ll work.”

 

Convenience upon convenience, it does. The contents of the safe, you’re disappointed to see, consists of one small box. You pick it up, and it’s very light.

 

“Crocker, we don’t know what’s in that thing,” Karkat says suddenly. “Could be dangerous.”

 

You open it, ignoring Karkat’s involuntary flinch, and your mouth goes dry.

 

“Jane?” Dirk asks.

 

Your hands shake as you reach into the little box and hold aloft four playing cards, spattered with blood—the aces of spades, diamonds, hearts, and clubs.

 

As soon as Karkat sees them, his eyes narrow. Dirk’s mouth quirks in a frown, then smoothes.

 

“Crocker, hand them over.” Karkat extends his paw. “Get out. You’re done.”

 

You’re surprised, but still have enough feeling in you to openly scowl.

 

“ _No!_ You can’t just—”

 

“I’m not asking. I’m telling you. You’re not getting mixed up with them again,” Karkat hisses, and he’s getting the edge of a snarl that sends chills down your spine. “Your safety is more important than your pride. Get out of my crime scene.”

 

You want to say a whole lot of things to him right now, but your jaw keeps moving up and down and no sound is coming out. Karkat grabs your arm, then Dirk’s, and forcefully drags both of you out of the house. You almost stumble into a passing cop and turn on your heel, now feeling on fire.

 

“You can find someplace else to stay while your homicidal moirail is under wraps!” you shout at his retreating back. You would keep yelling, but Dirk’s arm is around your shoulders and he’s muscling you back to the Scion. You decide you’re not talking to him, either, and spend the ride back to the apartment seething.

 

Apparently Dirk’s alright with you not talking to him and yelling at police officers, but he draws the line at actually throwing all of Detective Vantas’ stuff over the balcony. He doesn’t say anything, but the hard line of his mouth and the firm way he grabs your wrist when you go for the duffel bag first speaks volumes.

 

A tiny voice in your head says you’re reacting like a child.

 

You ignore that, too.

 

In fact, you ignore it so thoroughly that by the time you finish throwing things like couch cushions and old newspapers and most of the recycling piled up on the kitchen table at Dirk’s stupid head, you’re feeling quite justified.

 

“Are you done throwing a tantrum, or are we finally going to discuss this like rational adults?” Dirk deadpans. You glare at him.

 

“It’s not a _tantrum!_ ” you scream, going the whole mile and flipping the table. “Everyone is treating me like a kid who can’t handle anything just because of a few stupid playing cards!”

 

“Don’t even act like we don’t all know what those mean, Jane,” Dirk replies, voice hard. “We’re trying to look out for you.”

 

“I don’t need protecting!” you protest, because you _don’t_. You need to figure out why a loving couple killed each other and what _the stupid Midnight Crew_ has to do with it, not cower like a scared little girl behind Dirk and Karkat!

 

“If we’re taking a headcount here, how many close family members of yours have been killed or mortally wounded after getting into contact with the Midnight Crew?” Dirk’s voice is acid and it punches you right in the throat. You can’t believe he just went there. Your eyes fill up and your throat pinches shut and you do _not_ want to cry right now, because you are trying to argue your point.

 

Apparently you’re being supremely unsuccessful at sucking your tears back up into your ducts, because Dirk’s shoulders slump and his hands come up in a placating sort of way.

 

“Jane, I didn’t mean—”

 

You’re beyond words. You make for your bedroom door, ducking out of Dirk’s grasp, slam it as hard as you can behind you, and immediately run to your bed to bury your face in a pillow before bursting into full-out tears, crying so hard you’re making no sound at all. You hate this. You hate _them_. You hate all of the people “them” comprises, from Strider to Vantas to those stupid murder-happy carapacians who can’t leave well enough alone.

 

Most of all, you hate yourself. For a variety of reasons, all of which are clamoring for attention right now.

 

You keep yourself curled in a tight ball around your pillow for a long time, so long you actually doze off, and when you wake up the sun is going down and you can hear whispered voices in the hall. Or, more likely, one whispering voice and one voice trying to but failing miserably.

 

“How long has she been in there?”

 

“Few hours. Figured she needed to get it out of her system.”

 

“I didn’t…I just don’t want her to go through all that all over again, y’know? John got shot a year ago and they still haven’t talked about it, I didn’t—”

 

“I’m not blaming you, bro. I don’t want her anywhere near them if I can help it.”

 

“She’s…not going to be reasonable about it, though.”

 

“No kidding.”

 

There’s a long bout of silence, interrupted by a cough.

 

“So…am I really kicked out, or…?”

 

“No, man, just try to keep out of her line of sight for a little while. Hide behind the couch when she comes out, you know the drill.”

 

The little relieved sigh is audible and you feel a bit guilty. You know, intellectually, that Dirk and Karkat aren’t doing what they’re doing to be cruel or belittling. The comment about John cuts you all the way through, though, and you realize with a jolt it’s very close to the sixth anniversary of your dad’s death.

 

You have a sudden ravenous need to bite something—to tear someone apart with your bare hands and shoot them several times in vital places. You’re not sad. You’re not weepy. You’re in the mood for righteous vengeance. _Because the monsters who killed your dad are still walking free_ —and this case could be your ticket to bringing them down.

 

You walk to your door and fling it open. Dirk and Vantas are still in the hallway and have both frozen. It would be funny if your mind weren’t elsewhere. You stalk to the kitchen, scoop up the email from Mr. Hanson and the picture of the letter, and stick them both to the fridge with magnets. You then take down the brownie mix with grubs and slam it onto the countertop along with the bottle of canola oil and the eggs (gently).

 

“Crocker,” Vantas ventures, and you ignore him, tearing open the mix with your teeth and pouring it into the mixing bowl. “Jane.”

 

“What.” You slosh water and oil into your measuring bowl (near-perfect measurements, who cares) and sling both in with the brownie mix.

 

“I’m not going to apologize for taking you off the case—”

 

“Never said I wanted you to.” The eggs are viciously robbed of their innards and you dispense with the electric mixer, instead grabbing a wooden spoon and beating it yourself.

 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt again, you dope,” Vantas grumbles. “Bad things happen to you around this time every year, and sue me for being a sentimental pathetic loser, but I’m pretty sure we’re at the point in our relationship where if you die I will be upset.”

 

You spray down your baking pan a little less aggressively than you intended a few seconds ago.

 

“That goes triple for me, Janie,” Dirk says, and even with Vantas present he layers in a little bit of those growly pale undertones you find hard to ignore even when pissed. “Getting mixed up in this is bad news, all around. I’m supposed to keep you safe. You’ve gotta let me do that for you.”

 

You slide the brownies into the oven with more force than necessary and firmly shut the oven door. You’re still not talking to them. Best to wait until they’ve got all of the “please don’t”s out of their systems first.

 

However, it seems like they’re both done and are waiting on a reply; you plant yourself against the counter, back turned towards them, and say, calmly, “Six years.”

 

You wait. They’re both bright and it’s on-subject, they’ll figure it out soon enough. When you feel enough time has passed, you go on.

 

“I want to put this behind me as thoroughly as possible. That can’t happen while they’re still out there, ruining other people’s lives. The Hansons could be the ticket to ending the Midnight Crew, for good. Once I have them squirming under the thumb of justice, I’ll be able to move on with my life.”

 

“John moved on just fine,” Vantas says softly. “It’s not up to you to avenge your dad’s murder.”

 

“If not me, then who?” you ask, voice turning hollow. “Yeah, John moved, but I don’t think for a second he moved _on_. He ran away from the problem. I’m trying to fix it.”

 

“He got _shot_ in the _chest_ ,” Vantas snarls, and you whip around.

 

“Because of me!” you snap. “Don’t you get it yet? It’s not just my dad’s murder I’m paying for! It’s the last of John’s innocence and the Hansons’ murders! It’s every victim of every crime the Midnight Crew has ever committed! That’s all on _me!_ _I_ need to fix it, _I_ need to make it better, _I_ need to atone for that!”

 

Dirk’s hands twitch, but if he touches you right now you are going to slap him across the face.  You don’t want to be coddled and mollified back into sweet little Jane who bakes and solves neat little mysteries for fun. You want to be just what you are now—hard edges and fire, determination and spark. If Vantas won’t let you back on, fine. You’ll just track the Midnight Crew down yourself. It’s not like they’re hard to find if you send enough signals. You’ve got a threatening letter and enough brains left in your head to figure it out.

 

Apparently some of that leaked into your expression (good), because Vantas’ shoulders slump.

 

“ _Consulting_ detective, Crocker,” he reminds you. “Not ‘oh, goody, let’s run all over the scene and ignore everything Detective Vantas says!’ detective. If something goes wrong, I’m slamming you right back out, and no amount of impassioned speeches of vengeance and heroism are gonna change my mind, you got that?”

 

Dirk folds his arms, every inch of him looking like it’s made of steel. He’s clearly not happy about it, but you don’t care; Karkat is letting you back in the loop, and you are thrumming with purpose, a smile working its way back onto your face.

 

“Perfectly clear, Detective!” you chirp. “Anyone up for a game of Go Fish?”

 

==>

 

The rest of the evening is stiff; after the brownies are done you retreat back into your room with the letter, wracking your brains and opening an Internet web browser to try and scrounge up ideas. In the back of your mind you’re worrying about Dirk, the source of the apartment’s stilted atmosphere. His poker face looks the same as his other poker faces, but apparently Striders are capable of emitting emotional miasmas under duress. He is oozing anger. You berate yourself. No time to think of that right now, there’s a puzzle to be worked out!

 

On a whim you Google Neyvah Hanson. The first ten hits are about the murder, but an interesting article catches your eye.

 

“ _Neyvah Hanson, nee Arkogy, the troll famous in the anthropological world for her and her human matesprit’s discovery of an ancient dialect of troll language dubbed ‘Beforan’…_ ”

 

Hmmm.

 

You next Google Beforan, and lookie there, there’s your weird symbols!

 

It’s fairly easy going from there. You translate the letter, then decode it from its fairly simple sequence (Fibonacci? Really?). You’re so focused on your deciphering that when you realize what it is you’re reading your stomach turns.

 

Dirk and Karkat are both on the couch when you exit your room, and they look at you as you sink into the armchair.

 

“Mrs. Hanson thought her husband was the one sending the letters,” you say.

 

Karkat’s brow furrows. “Say what now?”

 

“Mrs. Hanson was an anthropologist,” you explain. “A few years ago she and her husband were on vacation in the desert and jointly discovered an ancient dialect of Alternian and called it Beforan, and that’s what the letter was written in. And it’s…really sick, personal stuff.” You pass over your translations and let the boys take a gander. At their nauseous expressions you sigh. “Mr. Hanson was an accountant, so I seriously doubt he would take the time to learn an ancient alphabet for the sole purpose of torturing his wife.”

 

“How do we know, though?” Dirk frowns. “Jane, the playing cards could’ve just been playing cards. There’s no way we can prove that the Midnight Crew had anything to do with this.”

 

“Not yet,” you say. “Karkat, I assume your people are running a DNA test on the blood on the cards?”

 

He jerks his head, scratching around his horns. “Could take about two weeks for the results to come in, maybe less. The blood looked pretty old, though, so we might not be able to get a match at all.”

 

“Until then, I’m going to be running through a list of everyone who was close to the victims, just to make sure their marriage was all it was cracked up to be,” you say definitively. “Making sure we don’t have any loose ends.”

 

“In the morning,” Dirk says.

 

“But—”

 

“Nope.”

 

And to cement that, he stands up, slings you over his shoulder, and marches you to his room. You squirm. His bed is lumpy and uncomfortable, and you have work to be doing!

 

But tonight is one of those nights where he’s not going to let you go for love or money, and without even bothering to change out of his jeans he curls himself around you and in no uncertain and nonverbal terms tells you that you’re not going anywhere for the time being. You could tickle your way out of his deathgrip, but he’s massaging circles into the back of your neck and that doesn’t feel entirely awful.

 

After a while you shift and relax and let your bodies fit together more comfortably, because it’s not outside of the range of possibility that you’ve been difficult to deal with today. His tight grip relaxes, but he still drapes his heavy limbs around you and lets you know that you’re not going anywhere soon. Not…like you want to, currently. He’s very warm.

 

You’re both drifting off or dozing when he speaks.

 

“Jane?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“’snot your fault,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just got the email this morning. Couldn’ta prevented it even if we teleported over.”

 

You exhale through your nose. “I know.”

 

“And all the other stuff the Midnight Crew does. Not your fault either.”

 

“If I had focused and kept my head back when I was nineteen, I could’ve stopped them all the way back then,” you reply. His breath pauses, then exhales in a puff.

 

“You were just a kid,” he says. “Just a kid.”

 

You know he wants to hear the story and the fact that he’s not forcing it out of you or even asking about it makes your heart swell. You nestle into his chest and succumb to sleep.

 

==>

 

You’re up before Dirk and manage to slip out of his embrace without waking him; you have some tracking to do.

 

You leave him a note ( _Going to poke around, call if you want to join in_ ) and go into work with Karkat, intent on getting an early a start on debunking the idea that Mr. Hanson was terrorizing his wife. The list of their acquaintance is small, but the first place you go is the closest: Mr. Hanson’s only remaining living relative, his brother, with whom he owned the accounting business. It’s a brown square building, one-story, coated liberally with graffiti on the side and with all the windows thrown open.

 

Mr. Franklin Hanson is a small balding man, mopping up his shiny scalp with a handkerchief and sitting behind an overloaded desk stacked with paperwork and electrical fans. It’s a hot day outside, surprisingly brutal after the mild winter you had a few months ago; you’re perspiring a little yourself. Karkat is already in his shirtsleeves and looking very much like a pissed-off cat. Trust the one place you want to spend the most time to have a busted AC unit.

 

“I just can’t believe Al’s gone,” Mr. Franklin Hanson squeaks, wringing his hands. “Him and Neyvah were just so happy together—so happy.”

 

“Had they been fighting prior to yesterday, Mr. Hanson?” you ask.

 

“Oh, no, never,” he shakes his head earnestly. “I—I mean besides the…what is it? Vacillation?”

 

Karkat glances at you. You ignore him.

 

“What did they vacillate between?”

 

“The heart and the spade, usually,” Mr. Franklin Hanson says, patting down his face. You study the handkerchief for a moment. Nice embroidery, a loopy DD monogrammed onto the corner. Maybe an old girlfriend’s. “Not very often, just once in a while. Got into some awful arguments, but they’d never raised a hand to each other like that! I just don’t understand why they’d…” he gulps. “K-kill each other.”

 

His lip is trembling and you’re feeling uncomfortable, so you and Karkat make your excuses and leave. As you exit the building you can’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite…right…about Mr. Franklin Hanson.

 

“Quadrant vacillation doesn’t mean that’s what this is,” you say instantly, before Karkat can open his mouth. “The only species that kill their kismeses are carapacians and cherubs.”

 

“Trolls have been known to,” Karkat argues. “Troll-human kismesissitudes hardly ever work out without one or the other getting maimed after a while, usually the human. We could just be looking at a case of a much-needed auspistice and domestic violence gone way, way wrong.”

 

You purse your lips and continue on.

 

The other people on your list say much the same as Franklin Hanson, and by the time lunchtime is rolling around you and Karkat are arguing back and forth about the health of the victims’ relationship. You’re pretty much getting nowhere when your phone buzzes.

 

_[TT]: Think I’ll stay in. Got an order for some smuppets I need to finish._

 

You ignore Karkat and text back.

 

_[GG]: If you insist! We’re having fun arguing the finer points of interspecies romance! Hoo hoo! :B_

 

_[TT]: sounds like a good time. Come home soon._

_[GG]: I’m trying._

_[TT]: <>_

_[GG]: <>_

 

It bugs you a little that he isn’t coming.

 

==>

 

By the end of the day, during which you translated and decoded the rest of the stalker letters that had been salvaged and argued yourself hoarse with Karkat that people in a healthy redrom didn’t vacillate into an unhealthy blackrom (and this counted as unhealthy, by all standards), you have a pounding headache behind your eyes and you’re ready to smother Detective Vantas with his own crummy collection of romcoms. You both come home grumpy and unwilling to talk when Dirk questions how your day went.

 

“Still can’t prove the Midnight Crew is involved,” Vantas grumbles from the couch.

 

“Can’t prove they weren’t,” you reply stubbornly.

 

“Good to know,” Dirk shrugs, bringing over a hot mug of…smells like lemon and allspice. He is a prince amongst men and you make a note to tell him that later. “Jane, clear our schedule tomorrow.”

 

“What for?” you mutter. You’re more or less out of ideas at the moment.

 

“Jake and Roxy want to do lunch,” Dirk says, and you sigh. On the one hand, it’ll do you a lot of good to see them again. On the other…Roxy’s chatter and Jake’s obtuseness are things your headache can’t take right now.

 

“Sounds good,” you mumble.

 

“We’re having it here, so if you want, you don’t even need to put on pants,” Dirk says, and you snort a little bit of hot lemon water up your nose laughing.

 

==>

 

Detective Vantas leaves the house nervous and jittery; he has an appointment with the shrink who’s going to determine whether or not he’s truly fit to be considered Gamzee’s moirail, and it’s obvious nerves are tearing him up. You offer him a pat on the back and a baggie full of brownies, and he offers you a weak smile and heads out.

 

You are, in fact, wearing pants when Jake and Roxy come over, and you’re glad to see the potato salad and package of hot dogs they’ve brought with them. Dirk’s set up an ancient and miniscule grill out on the balcony, which you’re sure violates some sort of health code or clause in your tenant contract; however, it’s summer, and summer calls for exactly the sort of food you’re preparing. Roxy sets the potato salad down on the counter and kisses your cheek. Jake waves and takes the hot dogs out to Dirk.

 

“Been forevs since we did a thing all together, Janie!” Roxy giggles, seating herself at the card table. “You dorks need to get yourselves some actual furniture besides the couch and La-Z-Boy set.”

 

“We’re managing,” you say with dignity, returning to frosting the red velvet cupcakes you’re working on. “How’s Calliope?”

 

“All settled in her new place,” Roxy smiles. “Don’t know why she didn’t wanna stay with me and Jake. Gotta say, I’m gettin’ a little worried about her. She’s been all distant lately.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” you shrug. “Cherubs get that way sometimes. She needs a vacation.”

 

You glance at her and wink when you notice she still looks uncertain, and she grins back.

 

“How’s the detectiving going?” Roxy asks.

 

“Fine, just fine,” you reply idly, hoping she doesn’t notice the glob of frosting that shot out of your bag a little too quickly. “Catching bad guys and becoming an Internet sensation.”

 

“The good kind, I hope!” Jake says cheerfully, giving you a sidelong squeeze by way of hug. “Did Roxy tell you about Callie?”

 

“A while ago,” you nod. “I was wondering if she was settling in alright.”

 

“Happy as a troll in slime!” Jake laughs. “I have to say, though, the old place looks mighty empty without her!”

 

He takes a place opposite Roxy and they carefully don’t look at each other. You frown, but wonder if maybe you’re overreacting.

 

“Plate numero uno is done,” Dirk announces, bringing in a plate piled high with steaming hamburger buns. You hope Karkat’s hungry later; even with Jake present there’s no way you’re going to make it all the way through all that meat. “Gotta finish up the dogs. Toss me a towel, Jane, it’s hot outside.”

 

You comply, aiming for his hair. Your aim is perfect, but so are his reflexes, and you stifle your small disappointment and put the finishing flair on the last cupcake. You then squeak as a sweaty towel slaps into your face.

 

“Dirk!” you squeal, but he’s already outside with the doors shut, whistling innocently. You grimace. He is _so_ not getting away with that.

 

“Ugh, you guys are gross,” Roxy laughs. “It’s been, like, six months, how are you still in the newlyrail stage?”

 

“I wouldn’t call it newlyrail,” you say with dignity. “I would call it ‘Dirk is going to get his butt handed to him in a few hours and then we’ll cuddle it out.’”

 

“See, that. That is what I’m talking about,” Roxy sighs. “Wish I had someone like that.”

 

“I thought you and Callie had a thing going,” you venture.

 

“We’re friends, but cherubs don’t do pale, in the troll or human sense,” Roxy shrugs. “Not like I’m lookin’ for true-pale right now. If I gotta stick to a one-quadrant system, that one quadrant better include sexytimes!”

 

You groan as Roxy laughs so hard she starts snorting. Jake, you notice, hasn’t moved from his firm observance of whatever’s going on outside the window that is so very intriguing. Once again, you ignore that little niggle in the back of your mind.

 

“And voila, I present to you gourmet cuisine chez Strider,” Dirk intones, sliding a platter of smoking hot dogs onto the table. “They mighta cooked a little long, but should taste alright. Jake, buddy, help me set the table?”

 

Jake starts from his intense study and grins. “Sure thing, old chap!”

 

The lunch conversation is stilted while everyone eats (and it all smells amazing), but after a while it becomes painfully obvious (to you, at least) that something is up with Jake and Roxy. You’re not sure what it is, because while they’re both animated as ever with you and Dirk, they more or less ignore each other. You glance at Dirk after a prolonged bout of silence, and his mouth twitches downwards.

 

“So,” you say casually, “how are you two, then? With Callie in her own apartment, I guess it’s a little weird, huh?”

 

“Oh, it’s fine,” Jake shrugs. “We miss her, of course, because she’s a very calming and cheerful person, but we’re…er…managing.”

 

“Be managing a little better if someone did the dishes more often,” Roxy says, and though her tone is playful her eyes are sharp.

 

“Or if it wasn’t up to one person to do all of the laundry all of the time,” Jake jokes, one of his hands clenching a little.

 

“Or even if someone would quit turning the hot water on for thirty minutes at a time while I’m trying to take a shower,” Roxy frowns.

 

There’s a moment of silence where you and Dirk look at each other and you could swear you’d be able to hear it if someone dropped a pin somewhere in the apartment complex; that moment ends as Jake and Roxy suddenly explode at each other, both of them talking so quickly and so loudly your headache from last night is starting to rear its ugly head again.

 

“— _notice_ the milk spoils when I don’t even get to drink it—”

 

“—blasting those stupid hunting specials at the buttcrack of dawn while I’m trying to sleep—”

 

“—have to handle your underwear! Why is that even something I should have to—”

 

You and Dirk stand up, you going for Roxy while he goes to Jake.

 

“Calm it down there, sailor,” you say soothingly, putting your hand on her arm. “Roxy. Come on. Shush.”

 

“Inside voice, dude, we don’t wanna bring the house down.”

 

Slowly but surely you both manage to get Roxy and Jake back into their seats and zip their lips. While they glare at each other, they aren’t yelling, and that’s a plus.

 

“Okay,” Dirk says when you’re all seated again, “we are going to discuss this calmly and rationally. Like adults. Adults is the thing we all are here.”

 

“What happened, guys?” you ask. “We’re all supposed to be best friends. Why are you arguing?”

 

They shuffle their feet and clear their throats.

 

“Jake’s too happy,” Roxy mumbles.

 

“Roxy sulks all the time,” Jake snipes.

 

“Because of Callie?” you ask.

 

Roxy and Jake both shake their heads.

 

“I think we made her move out,” Jake says hesitantly. “I suppose…she got tired of…mediating.”

 

“And not like the freaky troll kind, that ain’t what’s happening here,” Roxy adds quickly. “Just…I dunno, it’s like when you room with a friend in college and all the stuff you like about ‘em suddenly drives you crazy.”

 

“Then why not one of you move out?” Dirk asks. “Why kick out Calliope?”

 

Jake and Roxy look at each other then, like neither one of them had considered the idea before. There’s something weird going on between them, something you can’t put your finger on, and it’s driving you nuts.

 

“You’re…uh…not going pitch, are you?” you ask tentatively, and at the offended expressions thrown your way you sink back into your chair. “Sorry. Too much time around Detective Vantas.”

 

“Well, _something_ is going on,” Dirk says. “You two have sexual tension rolling off you in waves.”

 

 _That_ would be it. They get shifty-eyed, and that solidifies your partner’s hypothesis a little further.

 

“Lemme guess,” Dirk says, leaning his chair on its hind legs. “A whirlwind sordid night of drunken passion, and neither one of you wanted to talk about it afterwards even though you kinda think about it all the time and one or both of you might wanna pursue a relationship from it?”

 

A succinct summary, and an accurate one, given the increased guilt on their faces.

 

“I wasn’t drunk,” Roxy mutters.

 

“I was,” Jake winces.

 

Oh.

 

“So…what’re we looking at, here?” Dirk asks. “Come on, you both obviously have some unaired grievances about it, so let’s get ‘em out in the open.”

 

“With you two here?” Jake asks.

 

“Yes, with me and Dirk here,” Jane nods. “You two are clearly incapable of talking it through on your own, so we’re going to step in and do the ausp—mediating.” Curse Karkat and his inexhaustible supply of romcoms. You are going to have to stop watching them with him.

 

“I’m feeling a little bit like the village two-wheeled device here, I have to say,” Jake sighs. “To my knowledge, I think I’ve slept with just about everyone at this table.”

 

Dirk looks at you. You flush.

 

“It wasn’t like that,” Roxy shakes her head. “Not on my end, anyway. Unless you’re going for the whole OT4 BFF Collection.”

 

“No!” Jake cries. “I mean…I never meant to, at least! I dated Dirk in high school, and Jane…” he trails off. “Jane, you didn’t tell them, did you?”

 

As a matter of fact, you had not. “No offense to you, but I more or less try to forget about it.” And failed miserably, but that’s not the point, because now Dirk and Roxy are looking at you expectantly. “Well, if we’re all swapping stories…it was four or five years ago and I needed a little pick-me-up after a cold case and dear Great-grandmother Crocker finalized my disinheritance. Jake was in town, and we went to a bar, got to talking…I kissed him, and it kinda…snowballed, from there.” You cross your arms and study the table. “We talked about it afterwards and decided it was just a one-time thing and that was that.”

 

You can’t look at Dirk for some reason.

 

“So is that all that was to you?” Roxy asks. “Wham-bam, thank you ma’am, let’s pretend it never happened?”

 

“I wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t know how!” Jake argues. “You were all clingy onto Callie after that, and I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject!”

 

“What was I supposed to do? You were _drunk_ , for gog’s sake, I didn’t think it meant anything to you!”

 

“Well, maybe it did!” Jake snaps, and Roxy freezes. You are starting to regret forcing them to have this conversation. Jake sighs and rubs the back of his neck.

 

“Maybe, if we ever…you know…did it, at all, I wanted it to be more special than that,” Jake says, his voice unbearably soft and sweet. “I don’t regret anyone I’ve slept with, but…” Roxy flinches, and he gulps a little. “I do regret that it happened that way between you and me, Rox.”

 

You and Dirk look at each other. The level of discomfort in the room has skyrocketed. He’s doing the thing with his eyebrows that shrieks _do not want someone get me out of here help help help_.

 

“Well,” Roxy laughs a little, “I guess that makes me the dumb one. I’m just glad it happened at all.”

 

And then they’re grinning stupidly at each other and you stand up.

 

“Who wants cupcakes?” you say, a little louder than necessary, and after a second all three of them crack up at you. You turn red and stalk in a huff towards the kitchen. “Fine. None of you deserve my delicious cupcakes anyway.”

 

Basically the rest of the afternoon is much more relaxed; once the dishes are cleared away and the grill outside is cool you open the doors and let the warm summer air sweep inside while you watch dumb action movies all squished onto the couch. Somehow or another Jake and Roxy end up spooning while you and Dirk lean against each other, and it’s all comfortable and maybe a little over-warm but none of you care much.

 

“So,” Dirk murmurs in your ear, “you and Jake?”

 

“I told you when he first came to town I still had a thing for him,” you whisper back. “Residual feelings.”

 

“And…now?”

 

“All good,” you sigh.

 

“Anything else you wanna tell me?”

 

“Roxy and I made out in freshman year,” you reply. “May or may not have included tongue.”

 

“Yeah, me, too,” he says reflectively, and when Roxy looks over to ask what you’re giggling about it just makes the giggles worse.

 

==>

 

When they finally leave, Roxy’s hand in Jake’s back pocket and Jake’s arm around her shoulders, you feel completely exhausted. However, now there’s more of the couch open, and you take ample advantage of it, spreading out and stretching with your head on Dirk’s lap.

 

“Our collective friendship is such an incestuous slurry I don’t know if I should be laughing or taking three million showers and seeking professional help,” Dirk says thoughtfully. You laugh.

 

“So long as we all still care about each other in the end, I think we’re okay,” you say comfortably. “We’ve lasted this long.”

 

He hums in his throat and starts playing with your hair.

 

You let your eyes slide shut, humming a little yourself and feeling how absolutely lucky you are to have him in your diamond.

 

Diamond…

 

You sit bolt upright, almost crashing head-to-head with Dirk, who apparently had been on his way down to blow on your face or something.

 

“I need to go see a man about a handkerchief,” you say.

 

==>

 

This time you insist Dirk not accompany you. You manage to sneak out of the house with Li’l Seb; if Dirk sees you packing heat it’s game over. You swap your nifty leg holster for a simple shoulder holster you stole from Karkat and cover it up with a light jacket. Maybe a little too warm for this weather, but the trick is to not let Mr. Franklin Hanson know you’re armed.

 

Therefore, you’re sweltering by the time you make it to his office. Hmm. It looks closed, but his office window is still open and when you try the back door it’s unlocked. You take a deep breath to steel yourself and waltz into the office, knocking on Hanson’s door frame. He jumps, that monogrammed handkerchief still in his hands. Now that you’re paying more attention to it, you notice the tiny diamonds stitched into the corners.

 

“Oh! Miss Crocker!” Hanson squeaks. “I—I didn’t know you were coming!”

 

“It’s alright, I didn’t call ahead!” you laugh pleasantly. You can do pleasant, sweet, and unassuming ‘til the cows come home. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Hanson, but I had one more question about your brother, if that’s alright.”

 

“Quite—quite alright, Miss Crocker,” he says timidly, sitting back down. “What can I do for you?”

 

You moisten your lips. “I was just wondering if you have any carapacian clients, Mr. Hanson.”

 

“Well…yes, I believe so,” Mr. Hanson’s head bobs. His tone is wary.

 

“Would it be outside the realm of possibility to see a list of them?”

 

“W-without a warrant, Miss Crocker, I don’t have to let you see anything,” Mr. Hanson replies, eyes wide.

 

“Oh, of course, of course,” you laugh. “Just asking.” You pause and let your eyes openly linger on the handkerchief. “That’s a lovely hankie, Mr. Hanson. Where did you get it?”

 

“A—a friend.”

 

“A friend,” you repeat. “His name wouldn’t be Diamonds Droog, would it?”

 

You stare at each other for a few seconds. He ducks down for an open drawer. You pull out Li’l Seb.

 

“I wouldn’t do it, Mr. Hanson,” you say, voice hard, and you audibly cock your gun. Mr. Hanson puts his hands up and rises, trembling. “There we are. Nice and slow, and nobody has to get hurt.”

 

Mr. Hanson’s mouth is trembling and he looks very much like an overgrown baby about to wet himself.

 

“What sort of work did your brother do for the Midnight Crew, Mr. Hanson?”

 

“He—we t-take care of their finances,” he squeaks. “J-just number crunchers. We do that for them, th-they let us stay in business.”

 

“Did Albert do something wrong?” you ask. You know better than to lower your gun, even if he does look pathetic. “Is that why they framed it to look like he was terrorizing his wife?”

 

“Just—just a message,” Mr. Hanson pants, openly weeping. “Please, Miss Crocker, they’ll kill me if I—”

 

“A message? What for?” you ask. Mr. Hanson doesn’t answer, shaking his head and crying into the handkerchief. “Mr. Hanson, who was the message for?”

 

Your phone rings. Very carefully, you take one hand off of your gun and answer it.

 

“Crocker.”

 

“Jane, we got the results back from the blood test,” Karkat hisses into your ear. “You’re not gonna believe—”

 

“ _Karkat_.”

 

“It’s…it’s your dad’s.”

 

The phone drops from your nerveless grasp, Karkat’s overloud voice almost drowned out by the sound of Mr. Hanson’s sobs.

 

==>

 

You’re not sure where you feet are taking you; you’re running and that’s all you need to know. You run into people and flinch at loud noises and every time you wonder if your gun is back on safety but you don’t bother to check. You don’t bother to check much of anything until your feet give out and you feel grass tickling your legs. Oh. Hello, Dad.

 

Your phone has been buzzing nonstop since Karkat disconnected the call. You hadn’t bothered to get anything else out of Hanson. He was too terrified and you were—are—too numb. Maybe numb is the wrong word. You feel prickly, like you’re about to throw up, and hot and cold at the same time.

 

All this time…there was a deck of cards surrounding your father, but you hadn’t bothered to check if it had been a full set. You should’ve seen something like this coming.  You shouldn’t have questioned Hanson and let Vantas wrap the scene up, nice and tight—take all your leads away, make it so you never had to face this again. You thought you wanted to. You thought you did. You can’t. You can’t do this.

 

You take out Li’l Seb. Safety off. Miracle you didn’t hurt anybody. Or yourself. You turn it over and over in your hands. Feel the barrel. Trace the trigger. Entertain thoughts you haven’t…not since…

 

A strong glove-clad hand clamps down firmly on your wrist.

 

“Drop it,” a voice says tersely. You do. The voice keeps murmuring. You don’t much hear, instead studying your father’s headstone. You’re dimly aware of a pair of arms wrapping around your waist and a heavy head resting itself against your shoulder.

 

You are starting to see why people say you’re the one who needs a moirail.

 

From the outside, a moirallegiance is lopsided—the moirail calms or comforts the dangerous partner. You know that Karkat needs Gamzee ( _how did the session go will they be allowed to be together again you shouldn’t be allowed to have yours look at you_ ), just as much as Gamzee needs Karkat. They balance each other out. It’s symbiosis, to them. To you and Dirk.

 

At least…until now…you thought it was. You thought that you were helping him to ease up on himself, and he was trying to keep you safe.

 

You’re starting to think that he’s been trying to hold you and himself together while you give tearing you both apart your best shot. That’s not how the pale is supposed to go, from the inside.

 

You really feel sick now, and pry yourself free to upchuck a respectable distance from your dad’s grave. You crouch over your puddle of vomit for a few minutes, shuddering, unable to face much of anything. You can’t believe how much of a coward you are right now. Maybe John had the right idea the whole time. _I thought you wanted the proof that the Midnight Crew was involved, Janie-Jane. You’ve got it. What are you waiting for?_

 

Those strong and patient hands guide you upright and tuck you into a strong and patient lap, leaning against your dad’s headstone and making a gently soothing _ssshhhhhh_ while touching you—rubbing your back, wiping the corners of your eyes (when did you start crying?), planting chaste little kisses all over your face and the crook of your arm when you shift and throw your arms around his neck, sobbing long and hard into his shoulder.

 

He keeps murmuring your name over and over, and you feel so _useless_.

 

The sun’s gone down and it’s starting to get dark by the time you open up your eyes again. Dirk has his shades off, in public no less, and he looks so _tired_. You trace the bags and bite your lip. They make the orange of his irises stand out so much brighter. You could count every freckle on his face. How did you ever come to deserve him?

 

“Vantas called me,” he says. “Told me about the test results.”

 

You take a deep breath through your nose and nod.

 

“Where’d you go?” he asks, and his voice is small and hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

You can’t stand it, and plant a kiss on his mouth, closed-lipped and quick. That edges a little too far into other territory for your comfort, but you don’t especially care.

 

“Hanson,” you croak. “Had a handkerchief with Diamond Droog’s initials and sign on it. Went to check it out.”

 

Dirk sighs and pulls you against him, stroking your hair while you rest your cheek on his shoulder. “Jane, why did you keep looking?”

 

“I had to know,” you say softly. “I…want to…” You can’t find your words, because every action and reaction in the past hour or so has pointed towards you Not Wanting at all. Your dad’s lifeless body flashes in front of your eyes again and you turn your head to press your face into the side of Dirk’s neck. He rubs down your back, sighing.

 

“They…” you swallow hard. “They… _killed_ that couple, Dirk. Just to get my attention. The Beforan was just the right touch, just the right random element. Albert and Neyvah…they didn’t deserve what they got, they didn’t deserve it at all.”

 

You take a few deep breaths again while Dirk does his best to pap and soothe. He doesn’t speak. You’re not done yet.

 

“That’s why,” you say. “That’s why I can’t stop now. I can’t…let them get away with this. Not again. Not this time. They killed my father. They shot my brother. They manipulated a couple to murder each other. I can’t quit until they’re _stopped_.”

 

He’s quiet, so quiet, for a very long time.

 

“I understand,” he murmurs. “I do. I’m with you, behind you, got your back, three hundred percent.”

 

You sigh a little when he massages the back of your neck.

 

“But you’ve gotta meet me halfway here,” he says quietly. “Don’t leave me hanging, don’t make me message you fifteen minutes straight trying to track you down. Both or nothing. All in, all out.”

 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter into the space just below his ear. “I’m really sorry.”

 

He squeezes you tight and lets go, hauling both of you upright.

 

“Come on,” he says gently, holding your hand and leading you back down the hill of the cemetery towards the curb where the Scion has been parked haphazardly. “Think I know what the situation calls for.”

 

==>

 

His remedy is hot chocolate, a couple Advil for the raging headache you’ve got going, and tucking you warm and snuggly back in your own bed. You’re already drifting, but you catch his hand as he goes to leave. He kneels beside your bed, chin on his arm.

 

“Why do you put up with me?” you ask sleepily.

 

“No idea,” he replies, grinning and stroking his thumb over your hand. “I’ve been asking myself the same question in reverse every day for the past six months.”

 

You yawn, and he quirks another smile, kissing your forehead, your nose, and your lips, another one of those peck sort of things that you’re starting to get attached to.

 

“Get some sleep, Jane.”

 

“Still gonna be here when I wake up?” you sigh, not really paying attention to what you’re saying.

 

“Yup.”

 

You fall asleep and you don’t dream.

 

==>

 

You wake up the next morning fresh and with a half-formed plan in your head.

 

You walk out of your room and are slightly disappointed to note that Karkat isn’t snoring on the couch, and then realize that must mean his appointment went well. You grin and walk to the kitchen, setting about making bacon and eggs. Bacon and eggs sounds _great_.

 

Dirk emerges from his room a little while later, and you can tell by just glancing at him he didn’t sleep much last night, either. The sleeping pills are starting to sound like an inviting option. But you just smile and continue tending your bacon.

 

“Vantas isn’t here, I see,” you say. “I take it his appointment with the shrink was good?”

 

“Guy came bowling in here like a hurricane last night,” Dirk grunts. “Surprised he didn’t wake you up. He was half ecstatic to get back to the juggalo, half furious because you left him hanging yesterday.”

 

Oh. Right. You hunch your shoulders a little.

 

“Speaking of which,” he yawns, “you got some mail yesterday.”

 

“Mail?” you frown, turning around. “What kind of mail?”

 

“Dunno.” Dirk hands you a blank white envelope, and you turn the bacon and open it up. Inside is a map and a hastily-scratched note written in bold grey letters.

 

“ _HEY. YOU DIDN’T HEAR THIS FROM ME, BUT THERE’S A NIGHTCLUB CALLED ROYAL FLUSH WHERE THE GUYS YOU’RE LOOKING FOR MEET EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT. MIGHT BE A COOL PLACE TO GO SNOOPING._

_CHECK IN WITH ME BEFORE AND AFTER, DON’T GET KILLED, AND MAKE SURE THAT IDIOT YOU CALL YOUR PARTNER GETS THE OTHER THING IN THIS ENVELOPE. ALSO, HAVE I MENTIONED THAT IF YOU DIE I WILL RESURRECT YOU WITH THE SHEER POWER OF MY DISPLEASURE FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE OF SCREAMING YOU TO DEATH?_ ”

 

“Aww,” you coo. “He _does_ care.”

 

You rifle through the contents a second time and find a blank performance contract, already filled out for this evening and just missing the name slots. You study it, then your eyes flick up to Dirk. He frowns.

 

“What?”

 

“Do you recall, when we first moved in, how you said you were just a trophy roommate?” you say idly, fishing the bacon out of the pan and draining the grease to get started on the eggs. “And I said so long as you went with me to certain functions that you could keep being just that?”

 

“Yeah…why?”

 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to call in that favor tonight, Mr. Strider.”

 

The look he gives you is priceless.

 

==>

 

Both you and Dirk are wearing suits, your chest is bound (on such short notice, you have to make do with bandages; not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, but time is of the essence), and you have one of your beloved fake moustaches affixed to your upper lip when you go to call on Karkat. His house is one of the strange troll creations (hives, you recall), blocky and cramped and so ill-proportioned you’re not sure how it stays up. He blinks when he opens the door.

 

“Get in here before someone sees,” he grumps, moving aside. Dirk tips his fedora and winks. He’s swapped his trademark pointy shades for some resembling Dave’s, less obtrusive and round. Your hair is slicked back and you’re hoping the suit, a relic from John’s short doughy middle school days before his growth spurt, hides your hips well enough. You walk into the living room and stop short.

 

Gamzee is there, his length stretched out on a pile of assorted junk, and he’s looking at you and Dirk lazily from beneath his lashes. When he sees you he gives you a slow wink. Your mouth thins.

 

“Lookin’ good, sis,” he drawls, but says nothing else.

 

“Alright,” Karkat spits, “this is how it’s going to go. You two are basically going undercover, and that means you obey one simple rule that even your malformed human thinkpans can understand.” He holds up one finger. Surprisingly, it isn’t his middle one. “ _Do not get caught_. Do you comprehend the words coming out of my mouth?”

 

“Aye, aye, sir.” You snap off a quick salute. He snarls at you, but there’s not a lot of heat behind it.

 

“Your objective is to get in and try to find a solid connection between the Midnight Crew and the Hansons,” Karkat continues. “If we get enough reasonable doubt, we can ransack both the club and the accounting firm, which is good for us. I’ll say it one more time: if you get caught, you will probably die, and if you die, very bad things will happen to you.” He glares at you in particular. “Do we all understand each other?”

 

“Crystal clear, chief,” Dirk nods. “So this place gonna have a good band to play along with, or—?”

 

“It’s supposed to be like an old-timey casino, you moron,” Karkat groans. “The only ‘playing along’ you’re gonna be doing—and I don’t want to know what you were thinking about doing before—is using your throatbox.”

 

Dirk looks at you, hard and sharp.

 

“I haven’t done anything like that since middle school.”

 

“You’re the best option we’ve got, so better start loosening up in the car,” you say gently. “I know you can do it, Dirk. I’ve heard you plenty of times in the shower.”

 

He sighs. “Fine.”

 

“Alright. Okay. Alright.” Karkat takes a deep breath. “Uh…be careful.”

 

“Always am,” you say in a sing-song voice. “We’re gonna be late.”

 

Dirk does warmup exercises in the car while you drive, and while he squeaks a little on the high notes he sounds very nice, to your unpracticed ear. You hope it’ll be enough for the club patrons. From what you’ve heard, it’s a swanky place, and with a little bit of practice Dirk manages a low, smooth baritone that reminds you of some of the older singers your dad would blast through the house during the holidays. Crosby, maybe.

 

He’s scribbling a set list on the envelope, and you put in a few of your own favorites for his consideration and are pleasantly surprised to find out he’s got a functional knowledge of them all.

 

“All else fails, I’ll slow down the tempo of some contemporary songs. They’ll never know the difference,” Dirk shrugs. “Ready for this?”

 

You nod, bite your lip, and reach for Dirk’s hand after you park. He clenches your fingers tight.

 

Dirk heads for the backstage door at the side of the club, which is another boxy building with an eyewatering neon sign on the roof. You’re off to pose as a patron, your heart thumping in your chest.

 

They’re not a terribly selective bunch, the Royal Flush staff; their only stipulation is dress code. You are pronounced especially dapper and let in without a second thought. The atmosphere is reminiscent of grungy Old Hollywood, if you had to hazard a guess; the air is thick with cigarette and cigar smoke already, and every patron is black-tie and positively sparkling (some literally; carapacians have weird fashion sense). The crowd is mostly black carapacian, from your standpoint, though trolls and humans are here and there. The bartender is a squat white carapace, sporting an excellent handlebar moustache and a lapel decorated with four different pins—heart, spade, club, diamond. At least you’re in the right place.

 

You order a dirty martini just to have something in your hands and make your way to a table in the corner, keeping an eye on the patrons as they drift in. So far, no sign of your targets, but perhaps that’s for the best. You’re still working out the fine details of your plan at the moment.

 

What you really need is a ledger—some record of recent heists. That would be enough to arrest them and possibly wring a confession out of one of them. Maybe Clubs Deuce; he’s the smallest and not very bright, so Karkat could probably talk him in circles until he spills everything. The other three…they’re a little tougher. Hearts Boxcars will be dangerous to deal with; from what you heard in bits and trickles about the Felt wipeout a few months ago, the guy actually bit off the head of one of the Felt and _ate_ it. Diamonds Droog is a tough fighter, meticulous and calculating. You heard he once brutally murdered a guy just for spilling his drink on him.

 

The worst, though, would be their ringleader, Spades Slick. Stabby McGee himself. He wasn’t the kismesis and eventual murderer of Snowman for no reason. From your clashes, you got the impression that he was a jumpy guy, prone to bouts of violent stabbing, wickedly brilliant under pressure, and accompanied by a freakish streak of good luck. He will be the hardest to subjugate, but he does have a few vulnerabilities. His blind eye, for one, and for another his janky prosthetic arm, which you know for a fact freezes up and locks from time to time. You stare down at your drink and wonder what would happen if you just broke a bottle of vodka over his skull.

 

The ambience is thrumming soon enough, and Dirk takes his place onstage, announced as Die Stry (you thought it was clever; Dirk had rolled his eyes) to a smattering of applause. His voice is smooth as honey over the crowd, wavering a little on the longer notes. The crowd seems taken with him so far, and you cast your eyes over to the craps tables to see if… _ah_.

 

Hearts is wedged in a booth surrounded by a gaggle of carapace ladies, guffawing with his beefy arms around them. Diamonds is at the bar, poring over a newspaper and nursing a shot glass and bottle of scotch. Clubs is…you’re not quite sure where he is, because he seems to be bobbing between the tables. Need to keep an eye on him. Slick still hasn’t shown up. You know better than to move before you know where that one is.

 

You pull down the filthy fedora you’re wearing to what you’re hoping is an edgy angle and fix your moustache under the pretense of stroking it. Sticky as ever; it’s going to hurt like crazy to rip it off. Well into the third song Slick still hasn’t shown up, and you tap the arm of a passing waitress.

 

“Pardon me,” you say gruffly, “but is Spades Slick here this evening?”

 

“In his office,” she says wearily. “Won’t be out for a while.”

 

You thank her and drink your martini. Ugh. You’re not a fan of olives.

 

The office…now _that_ sounds like something you could use. Carefully you stand up and make your way around the wall. This leads you to the bathrooms, alright…but where…?

 

You almost jump out of your skin when Spades Slick manifests from behind a plain black door you hadn’t noticed before, but you play it casual. He doesn’t even notice you as you walk by. Li’l Seb’s weight at your side feels more conspicuous than ever. You idly wonder how far you’d get if you just pulled the trigger right now….

 

That’s dangerous talk. You mark the position of the door and keep walking under the pretense of making your way to the bar. You get a refill on the martini, this time sans olive, and return to your table.

 

You keep a close eye on all four of them. Slick starts at the craps tables, laughing uproariously, until apparently he rolls badly and ends his winning streak. He relieves some feelings by stabbing the hand of the guy who won off of him, pinning it to the table, and he cackles at the agonized screams. You feel a little sick, but remain calm.

 

Clubs has wandered off again, but you find him eventually, occupying a booth and playing a game of solitaire. Hearts is still covered in honeys. Diamonds is studying the stage where Dirk is performing now, brow furrowed in scrutiny. That makes you nervous, but you remind yourself that was part of the plan. Dirk is a natural performer; if he can keep the majority of the crowd, including any Midnight Crew members, focused on him while they gamble and drink, that’ll leave you free to collect your evidence. It doesn’t mean you have to like it.

 

You consider mingling and decide not to draw attention to yourself. Still…all this waiting around is making you antsy. You tap your fingers on the tabletop and sigh.

 

Your perfect opportunity arrives an hour and a half later. Hearts is still occupied the same way he was when he got here. Diamonds is similarly engaged in a discussion with a troll in a slinky dress. Clubs is snoozing at his booth (you’d watched Slick spike his drinks when the little guy wasn’t looking; you almost feel bad for him). And the man himself? Thoroughly engrossed in a poker game with a nervous table of assorted patrons, his back to the door. Now’s your chance.

 

You imagine for a moment that you’re Dirk and you are the epitome of cool, sliding through the crowd. The door is hidden from public viewing by a little enclave of a hallway, at the other end of which are the bathrooms. For a nightclub, they’re surprisingly empty, and so no one notices when, using a hairpin and a nail file, you manage to pick the lock and slip inside.

 

It’s neatly-organized and clearly labeled (probably for Clubs Deuce’s benefit), and after a little bit of prying you find a file labeled HANSON and flip through it. And…yep, there’s a copy of the Beforan alphabet, the address of their house and the accounting firm, and the human translations, along with a whole ton of photos of the couple. You tuck the folder into your coat and slowly ease your way out, letting the lock click behind you.

 

You make it a few steps when you run smack into Spades Slick, who is more than a little sloshed and weaving.

 

“Hey, buddy,” he growls, “watch it!”

 

“Sorry,” you say quickly, but Slick grabs your arm.

 

“C’mere,” he slurs, and your life flashes before your eyes. “Need another player. You know how ta play—y’know how to play poker?”

 

Your knowledge is rudimentary at best. “Uh, not really—”

 

“Good. Not playin’ poker. Playin’ slapjack,” he grumbles, and you’re being pulled towards his table before you can protest. Slapjack isn’t exactly the most hardcore of card games, but after a few minutes you can see why he likes it; his mechanical arm slings out and slaps the pile quicker than any of the other players. Not like any of you would even dare to try, glancing at each other nervously. You’re pretty sure everyone knows about the hand-stabbing.

 

“Say, kid,” he grunts, “you ever been here before?”

 

“No, sir,” you say, keeping your voice rough and masculine as you possibly can.

 

“Huh. New kid, new singer…too much new. Don’t like new,” Slick grumbles. “Hey, kid, you even trying here?”

 

You hurriedly place another card down on the pile and hope he stops talking to you soon. The folder in your coat feels like lead.

 

The other players around the table are slowly eliminated, until it’s just you and Slick doggedly playing back and forth. He keeps nattering about licorice and a dame you think might be Snowman, but it’s hard to tell when his fangs drag together and he can’t talk as well with all the whiskey in his system. You’re getting close to losing—and, you hope, freedom—when there’s a shout and someone grabs your shoulder.

 

“Oh my gosh,” John Egbert says, “ _Jane?_ ”

 

You freeze. Slick freezes. Even Dirk freezes, which makes the band stop and the club start to murmur.

 

“That’s you, isn’t it?” John says, and he’s dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans and _how did he get here, how did he find me_. You shake your head, eyes wide, but the damage is already done.

 

“Jane?” Slick growls. “Jane _Crocker?_ ”

 

Well. The jig is up.

 

You take a leaf out of your past self’s book and flip the table over on top of Spades Slick, grab John’s hand, and run like mad for the door. There’s a shout and a clatter, and Dirk catches up.

 

“Oh, no,” he grimaces, and you see why—Diamonds Droog is in your path, sporting a rather alarming piece of artillery.

 

“Duck!” you hiss, and you and John split off from Dirk just as Droog open-fires. He’s trying to kill you and John, that much is obvious; his beady eyes are sharp and clear. Luckily, you have _John Egbert_ with you, and he runs as fast as the wind, even dragging you behind. The club is chaos and the door seems so far away; there’s gunfire all over now, and you can’t see Dirk, but you refuse to let yourself think anything other than that he’s making for the door and will meet you outside. You also can’t be in too much awe that your little bro, whom you haven’t seen in a year or more, is pulling you along with him.

 

You’re almost to the door, having dodged most of the chaos with a little punching and weaving, when Hearts Boxcars lumbers into your path, pounding one hammy fist into the palm of his other hand.

 

“Knees!” John cries, and pulls you down as you _slide right between Hearts’ legs_. Holy hosanna, you didn’t even know it was _possible_ to do that—

 

And something very sharp plunges into your back, and you stumble. John is dragging your dead weight for a few seconds before he even realizes what’s happened. Behind Hearts lurks Spades Slick, a devilish grin on his face.

 

You feel very woozy all of a sudden, and don’t even notice it when John scoops you up and the two of you manage to clear the doors.

 

There’s some shouting and cursing and more gunfire—“ _No, just take mine, trust me_!”—“ _Jane, you’ve gotta stay awake here, don’t—_ ” “ _Oh man, that’s a lot of blood—_ ”

 

The world drifts out with the sound of breaking glass and a revving engine.

 

==>

 

You wake up feeling approximately like a pile of deflated balloons, if deflated balloons can feel sore and stuffy.

 

Your hand is very warm.

 

You blink your eyes open, wince, swallow, cough, and groan. Everything hurts. Why does everything hurt?

 

Your line of sight is obstructed by a blanched face with orange eyes. You crack a grin.

 

“Hey.”

 

His freckles stand out very clearly against his skin right now. Have they always been so plentiful? You’d reach up to touch him but you find that moving your arms is another world of ow.

 

“Hey,” he replies, voice sounding about as hoarse as your own. There’s…something that happened…what was it?

 

You cough, another shaft of pain lances through your back, and it all comes rushing back. This time you ignore the pain and grab Dirk’s arm.

 

“The file! Did you get—?”

 

“Safe and sound,” he nods, and his voice is still weird and trembly. You realize he’s stroking your face.

 

You take a deep breath. “Where’s my brother?”

 

Dirk’s face hardens, that steely look that gives you chills every time.

 

“In the hall,” he says through gritted teeth.

 

“Can I…” you swallow, and Dirk grabs a cup of water from your bedside and helps you take a sip. “Can I see him?”

 

His expression is still taut, but he nods and opens the door. John comes rushing in, face a mask of thinly-veiled terror that would be funny if your back didn’t _really_ hurt right now.

 

“Oh man, Jane, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were undercover, if I knew I wouldn’t have—”

 

“Hey,” you wince, “knock it off. I’m not mad.”

 

“You’re not?” he asks, face going blank.

 

“Nope,” you shake your head. “I figure…we’re even now.”

 

There’s a curious silence where you look at John and he chews on his lip. You’re aware of Dirk lurking in the background, doing the emotional projection thing again. He’s a tangled knot of relief, fear, and simmering anger. You’re going to have to talk to him.

 

John’s face eventually splits into a grin. “Yeah. Even.”

 

You bump knuckles, and at your pointing he obediently submits his hair to be ruffled.

 

“We are going to have a nice long chat,” you promise him, “but right now I need to get out of this bed.”

 

John’s smile drops, and Dirk is back at your side in a flash.

 

“Jane, you had to have a blood transfusion and some minor surgery,” Dirk says. “You’re not going anywhere for another few days at least.”

 

At your horrorstruck expression John chimes in. “But the doctors said you’re healing really fast for the kind of stab wound it was! They said it wasn’t as deep as it could’ve been because of all the bandages in the way, but it nicked some pretty important stuff, so—”

 

You groan. “I can’t lie around all day, I’ve got a case to finish!”

 

“Jane,” Dirk says firmly, “you are supposed to be on some wicked pain meds right now. Make you all kinds of drowsy. I will call the nurse and dope you up again if you don’t calm down.”

 

You grimace, and he mimics your expression. After a few seconds you sigh and reach for his hand again.

 

“Talk to me,” you grumble. “Did Karkat get the file?”

 

“Yeah. Way to give him a heart attack, by the way, I’ve never seen him turn that color before,” Dirk snorts. “The Hanson case is officially being treated by the police department as a gang crime now. They already went to ransack Royal Flush, but the place was on fire by the time they got there. I don’t think anything from the office there survived.”

 

“And Hanson Accounting?”

 

“Currently being searched, but that’s a metric ton of paperwork to sort through. Whiny Hanson is passing faint, from what I’ve heard.”

 

You breathe a sigh of relief. Ow. “Good enough, I guess.”

 

“That’s not all of it, though,” John cuts in, and Dirk glares at him. “The Midnight Crew are really mad, Jane. I think they’ve got a serious hit out on you!”

 

You frown. “How do you know?”

 

“I have my resources,” he shrugs.

 

“The same resources that said it would be a great idea to go in and blow Jane’s cover in the middle of Midnight Crew turf?” Dirk growls. John flushes.

 

“Yeah, I messed that one up,” he frowns. “Look, I’ll do all my groveling to both of you later. I think we’ve got more serious things to worry about, right?”

 

You squeeze Dirk’s hand. He looks at you. You quirk your mouth. He sighs.

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Okay,” you sigh, “anything else important happen?”

 

“Nothing much,” Dirk shrugs as John opens his mouth. “Jake and Roxy’ll probably stop by later, and Calliope. Blog and email won’t stop blowing up with well-wishes. It’s a little nuts.”

 

You grin. “Alright. I think I’m ready for doping up, Strider.”

 

“Coming right up, Crocker,” he says, and even with John right there he kisses your forehead as he pushes the Summon Dopey Drugs button.

 

==>

 

Like John said, you’re healing at an alarming rate. The stab wound was smooth and fairly shallow, only a few inches deep, but nicked a major artery and damaged some ligaments that you’re told will make it hard to use your right arm for a little while. Most of the damage to your body seems to be originating from a lot of bruises and tiny cuts, which are explained with much mumbling and feet-shuffling as “old-fashioned car chase complete with automatic gunfire and possibly illegal maneuvers on the freeway including but not limited to driving off a ramp and landing right on the top floor of the parking garage next to the hospital”. When put like that, you’re almost sorry you missed it.

 

You’re released after three days (four days total; you were in surgery and passed out for most of the first day you were brought in) with a prescription for some good strong stuff you can’t pronounce and the admonition to take it easy and not move too much if you can help it. Dirk’s arm clamped around your shoulder is an unspoken promise and threat.

 

He’s more or less loosened up around John, though by Dirk standards that doesn’t mean much; he’s as stoic and cryptic with John as he is with everyone else not Jane and their friends. John is mostly his cheerful self, nattering on and on about his girlfriend and only occasionally brooding in corners, massaging his chest. You set up camp on the couch (“TV,” you say flatly) and become thoroughly bored within a day or two.

 

You tense up, though, when Karkat comes to see you, his moirail in tow.

 

Gamzee doesn’t say much around you, although you’ve heard Karkat often complain about his tendency to never shut up. He gives you another slow, sly wink, eyes lingering on your torso, and situates himself in the La-Z-Boy, pulling Karkat onto his lap (Karkat squeaks. It’s completely adorable).

 

“Just thought you might want to hear an update on the Midnight Crew situation,” Karkat says, and despite his cuddled-up position his voice is all business. Dirk sits next to you on the couch and John leans against the back. Karkat glances at him a few times and shakes his head. “Man, I can’t get used to seeing your buck-toothed leer everywhere I go, Egbert. You’ve got cruddy timing.”

 

John merely shrugs.

 

“We’ve got active warrants out for the Midnight Crew,” Karkat continues, “and we finally hit paydirt with the Hanson Accounting files. Ledger after spreadsheet after chart of finances and people who owe them money and people they owe money to. We’ve gotten their accounts frozen and have warning flags in place for checks or credit cards. Basically, we’re smoking them out and waiting for them to rear their ugly, weirdly smooth heads.”

 

You sigh. “Good. About time.”

 

“Yeah.” Karkat fidgets with his fingers, then looks at you earnestly, fiery red pupils somehow brighter. “I’m sorry, Crocker. I shouldn’t have sent you in there without more backup. That’s completely on me, I’m the idiot who basically sucks in every way, and if you don’t want to see me again—”

 

“Don’t be a drama queen, Vantas, much as it becomes you,” you giggle. “I’m not upset with anyone. Stuff happens, we can’t always control it. I wouldn’t have wanted backup anyway, you know me.”

 

“Unfortunately,” Karkat grumbles, but he’s looking marginally more cheerful. Gamzee mutters something into his ear, and Karkat shifts to hold a private conversation with him. You note how relaxed Karkat is, how steady Gamzee seems, and sigh despite yourself. Dirk stands, shifts you around, and you lean against his chest, sighing again but more content.

 

“Uh…ew,” John laughs. “Can’t you guys all just get piles or something?”

 

The double bird Karkat flips is somewhat ruined by the involuntary clicking in the back of his throat as Gamzee nuzzles his jaw.

 

The visit doesn’t last for very long, but it’s enough; you and Karkat are still on friendly terms, and you still can’t stand his moirail. He keeps _looking_ at you. It drives you up the wall (or as far up it as you can get with a stab wound).

 

John hovers as you and Dirk just get more comfortable, looking uncertain.

 

“Uhhh…so I know it’s last-minute, but can I stay here for a few days?” he asks. You laugh so hard your eyes leak a little from pain.

 

==>

 

It’s been about two weeks and you’re up and walking almost like normal. You still can’t lift things that are too heavy and twist and bend like you used to, but the doctors are flabbergasted. You just shrug. You’ve always been a fast healer.

 

You and John have gotten caught up, had a sibling feelings jam with lots of crying and chocolate chip cookies, the works. Dirk hovers, but not nearly as badly as he did before being hospitalized. You’re not sure why, but it might be John’s presence. You remember how weird he was to be around when he was reconciling with Dave; you figure you’re probably no different, only John is living with you.

 

The Midnight Crew is always niggling at the back of your mind, a constant worry that wears at your nerves, much like the constant ache in your back now that you’re weaning yourself off your pain pills. It means you get tired more quickly than you used to, but you’re not one to complain; Dirk tends to actually sleep when you coerce him into cuddling just before you drift off.

 

Dirk lets you go grocery shopping with just John as company midway through the third week. Tomorrow is the sixth anniversary of your dad’s death, and you and John want to do something—celebratory, in a morbid sort of way. You and John argue over cake versus cookies and Nick Cage versus Nick Offerman, and all in all you’re feeling very relaxed by the time you make it up to your apartment. Until you notice the door has been kicked in.

 

You curse your lack of foresight in not bringing Li’l Seb along and set the groceries off to the side, to be collected later, holding your finger to your lips at John. His mouth thins and he nods. He remembers the drill.

 

Carefully you edge back the door, and John grabs your wrist and positions himself in front with a significant look. You roll your eyes but let him.

 

The apartment is totally trashed; all the furniture has been overturned, and your stomach plummets when you notice a fairly smallish pool of blood with drag marks in the center of the room. You swallow hard.

 

“Dirk?” you call. No answer. You step on something metal and jump. It’s a broken katana.

 

John snoops through the rooms while you stand next to the blood and try very hard not to hyperventilate; he presses something cold and metal into your hands and your fist closes around Li’l Seb with blessed familiarity.

 

“He’s not here, Jane,” John says worriedly, “but it looks like he put up a terrific fight against whoever did this. Left his phone and everything.”

 

You’re about to start issuing orders when a loud, piercing sound interrupts you by forcing your blood to run cold.

 

“ _Honk!_ ”

 

You should’ve known.

 

He comes bounding into the apartment, eyes red, fangs bared in a snarl, and he honks at you again. John is shouting, but you recognize the dents in your walls and furniture; you’d bet money if you forced his stupid clubs into them they’d fit perfectly. He rushes you, and you cock your gun as a warning. He doesn’t stop, so you fire. Highblood skin is thick, but at close range, the bullet tears right through his chest. It slows him down considerably, from a wild rampage to a loping stalk. It seems to clear his head a little, because even as he forces a club under your chin, nice and slow, he’s finally using his words.

 

“Gonna paint you from one end of this room to the other, sis, ain’t gonna be enough left of you to make a mother—”

 

“Finish that word, and I blow your bulge off,” you snap, hoping he can feel the cold press of your gun to his crotch even as he forces your head back farther to look him in the face. You are _not_ up to dealing with his clown bullcrap today. Or ever. He glares at you, teeth gritting and growling, and you stare back coldly.

 

“Uh…can we…calm down here?” John’s voice breaks through the haze, and his hands are forcing you and Gamzee apart. “Seriously, stop it.”

 

You wait until the clubs are out of your face before retracting the gun, although you don’t put it away any more than Gamzee puts the clubs away.

 

“Gamzee, what’s wrong?” John asks. “Where’s Karkat?”

 

“Ask that sly mother—sis, where my Karbro is,” Gamzee growls, holding up his right hand. You notice for the first time that something is oozing from between his fingers and it looks a lot like cake. “I was all getting my walk on and when I come back, ain’t nothing left of my beloved but a trashed hive, some bloodspatters, and a blasphemous _confectionary_.”

 

“I had nothing to do with that,” you snap. “Why don’t you tell me where Dirk is?”

 

“Guys, you’re both being irrational,” John protests. “Gamzee, Jane couldn’t have kidnapped Karkat, she was with me all afternoon. And why would she? She’s friends with Karkat! And Jane, Gamzee couldn’t have kidnapped Dirk, because Gamzee obviously just came up here!”

 

It makes sense. You don’t take your eyes off the juggalo.

 

“But from what I’ve heard the past few weeks,” John muses, “this whole setup sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it, Jane?”

 

It hits you so fast you feel dizzy. It _is_ familiar. Sickeningly so. And it’s such a shoddy attempt at recreation you’re disgusted you almost fell for it.

 

“You got the knowing of where my Karbro’s at, sis?” Gamzee snarls. “Then you’d best be _telling me_.” His voice goes into a pitch that turns your spine into a column of ice.

 

“I don’t know where, exactly,” you say slowly, “but I know a who. How much of Karkat’s explanations of the Midnight Crew stuck in your defective brain?”

 

Gamzee’s eyes narrow, and you wonder how much of his Felt brainwashing remains.

 

“Obviously they wanted us to kill each other the same way they made the Hansons,” you say, scratching your jaw with the barrel of your gun, absently, “but the setup is too sloppy, so that says two things. One, they were banking on Gamzee’s club first, ask questions later approach.”

 

“It ain’t entirely out of my mind yet,” he growls.

 

“Two, they were pressed for time or materials,” you continue. “Which means they’ve left a plethora of clues behind.”

 

“How do we know Dirk and Karkat aren’t…y’know…dead?” John asks. Gamzee snarls wordlessly.

 

“They wouldn’t. They’d need the leverage in case we do just what we’re about to do,” you say grimly.

 

“And what the—what are we about to _do_ , sis?”

 

You click on the safety and slide Li’l Seb into the waistband of your shorts. “We’re going to get our moirails back. Together.” You hesitate, then hold out your hand. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t like you. You clearly don’t like me. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get Dirk back, even if it means team up with you. Can you trust me to not lead you astray on this?”

 

He studies you, a quiet growl still rumbling in his chest, but passes his club to his other hand and shakes.

 

“You just point me in the direction, and I will _deliver unto me my results_ ,” he snarls. “If it comes down to getting Karbro out and leavin’ you, _I will leave and not lose any sleep_. We clear on that much, sis?”

 

“Perfectly,” you say primly.

 

“Woohoo!” John cheers. You both glare at him.

 

==>

 

You have Gamzee sit on the bar. Likely his stupid clown feet have already smudged a lot of the footprints. You ignore the voice that says it’s more likely you and John did that already. After half an hour on all-fours, you grimace.

 

Diamonds Droog was probably here, then; he’s a lot more careful about leaving useful little things like footprints. Probably keeps a set of booties in his coat pocket. If Droog was here, then he was likely with Clubs Deuce; none of the others have much patience for him. You start inspecting the wall dents, borrowing one of Gamzee’s clubs (with much a glare and snarl and John protesting) just to check the shapes. No…the edges are too curved. More like they were done with a…cane, maybe?

 

You inspect the bloodstain, which is starting to dry and curdle. Smells human. You dip a pinky in and dash a drop across your tongue, then spit. Yep. Tastes human. So probably Dirk’s. The drag pattern looks like it was made with his hair, which means a head wound. You fight down the spike of panic. Broken katana means he put up a fight—probably got pegged in the back of the head with the same instrument used to dent the walls.

 

You’ve got all the data you’re going to get from here in the time frame you’re working in.

 

“This kidnapping was done by Diamonds and Clubs,” you say to your waiting compatriots. “Which means Spades and Hearts did the kidnapping at Karkat’s.” You check to make sure your gun is still in your waistband, then fetch your leg holster. You’re not sure you could struggle into your shoulder holster after so long on all fours. Your back is severely wanting for a pain pill. “Let’s go.”

 

The walk over there is tense, but John is in the middle so you don’t have to suffer through too much of the juggalo’s more annoying traits, like dragging his feet and breathing. The hive is pretty visibly trashed from the outside, the door kicked in just like yours. Inside, the damage looks about equivalent to what would happen if a juggernaut roughly Hearts Boxcars’ size trampled through. To your delight, both sets of footprints are quite visible thanks to a liberal coating of mud. You wish you had time to run some decent tests, but under the circumstances…

 

You scrape some of the mud off the floor and hold it under Gamzee’s nose. “Sniff this.”

 

He knocks your hand away, grimacing. “Crocker, whatever nasty kinda mess you tryin’ to pull—”

 

“If we can figure out where the mud came from, we can find Karkat,” you say tersely. “You have a more sensitive nose than me. Sniff. The. Mud.”

 

He glares at you and gets a good, deep whiff.

 

“What do you smell?” you ask. “Be specific.”

 

Gamzee smacks his lips thoughtfully. “Kinda fishy. Like river water.”

 

“Brilliant,” you grin. “We have a general area…let’s see if we can get more specific.”

 

You let John do the floor-scoping this time. While he’s doing that, you examine the living room area. You see obvious knifework in the slashes all over the furniture—possibly to imitate a katana? Which is idiotic; Dirk is the one who uses the—oh, right, Gamzee would be operating under the delusion you had help, what with your stab wound. Surprisingly clever of them. There are obvious marks of Hearts everywhere, though; the walls have several holes in them from fists and shoulders, which means Karkat was putting up a good fight. You’d expect nothing less from him. A lot of the blood on the floor, while the same color as yours and Karkat’s, is a bit off—doesn’t smell salty so much as…oily. Carapacian blood, then.

 

Out of curiosity you follow the blood trail out the back door, where there’s a strip of grass and another street, but it disappears. A car, then. Looks like it had stalled out for a bit; there are thick black tire marks all over the washed-out asphalt. You study them. You’re no car expert, but from what you can pick up it was probably an ancient stick-shift. Probably something mobster-classic, like a Cadillac or a Rolls-Royce.

 

Mobster-classic…you wonder if…

 

“John,” you call, and he pokes his head out of the back door. “I need you to Google something on that fancy-schmancy phone of yours.”

 

“Sure,” John grins, pulling out his phone (“Palm husk,” he’d insisted. “Vriska got it for me!”). “What’s up?”

 

You ignore Gamzee as he joins the two of you. “Look up abandoned warehouses on the riverfront.”

 

After a few seconds John clears his throat. “There are about three, pretty close together.”

 

“Alright, men, we’re moving out,” you say imperiously. “We’ll need a proper set of wheels for this excursion. We’re looking for a riverfront warehouse with a crappy old car straight from the most cliché gangster movie you can imagine.”

 

“What makes you so sure, sis?” Gamzee rumbles.

 

“Because my brain actually functions, Mr. Makara,” you say breezily. “John? Bring the car around.”

 

==>

 

The car you use is Dirk’s reclaimed Scion; John’s apparently was trashed in the car chase that got you to the hospital. It’s getting dark by the time you make it to the river, and the moon is up and bright when you spot the Rolls-Royce by the biggest warehouse.

 

You get out your gun, make sure it’s loaded, and flip off the safety. No need to be entirely stupid. Gamzee hefts his clubs. John…goes to the trunk and takes out a sledgehammer. At your incredulous stare he shrugs, and you suddenly realize that your brother’s arms are considerably more sculpted than you remember them being.

 

“I do some construction work,” he says defensively. “I like sledgehammers.”

 

You roll your eyes but don’t say what’s on your mind ( _great, if we get into a firefight it’ll be my peashooter against semi-automatic weapons. Fantastic_ ).

 

“Keep close,” you murmur. “Be quiet as you can.”

 

It’s unsettling, how silent Gamzee can be. When his breath brushes your neck (because John insisted on taking the lead), you nearly jump out of your skin.

 

“There ain’t gonna be much left of you if you’ve led me wrong, Janie,” he whispers. “I will unscrew your head so fast—”

 

“This is hardly the time for a black flirtation,” you mutter back. He hisses, but withdraws. Not like you’d be into the clown anyway. You don’t swing caliginous. It’s not how you’re wired.

 

Your entry point is a gap in the rotted wall, which takes you behind a sturdy line of crates. You can hear Clubs Deuce’s ridiculous high-pitched voice from here, chirping about something. No noise from Dirk or Karkat. After a few minutes of scrunching up your body and weaving through dusty boxes, you finally see a solitary pool of light. The voices of the other members of the Midnight Crew are audible.

 

“—kill ‘em now?” Hearts Boxcars’ gruff voice rumbles. “I’m hungry.”

 

“Because, y’idjit, we gotta make sure the clown spattered Little Miss Detective good first,” Spades Slick’s scratchy baritone snaps. “Gotta keep Bitey here alive for leverage. Were you even listenin’ when I made the plan?”

 

“I was listenin’, I just dunno why we gotta wait so long!”

 

“She’s a big deal, ain’t she?” Slick hisses. “Gotta wait for the news to hit!”

 

There’s a disgruntled silence, and a growl that could’ve been Hearts’ stomach. Your own gut roils.

 

“Dunno why it’s takin’ so long, floor shoulda been mopped with her head by now,” Slick grumbles.

 

“Unless you overestimated Vantas’ moirail,” a calmer voice that can only be Diamonds Droog issues. “In which case, they could be on their way here right now in a ragtag teamup.”

 

“Shaddup, Droog, there’s no way,” Slick snaps. You look at the crate in front of you. The paint is faded, but maybe if it’s something sharp…

 

There’s a groan, and a slap. Your heart pounds when you recognize Dirk’s voice. John presses his hand against your shoulder in a clear sign to stay put.

 

“Jane?” Dirk says groggily.

 

“Wakey-wakey, meatsack!” Hearts giggles. Your mouth twists.

 

“Looks like the other one’s waking up too, Boss!” Clubs Deuce squeaks.

 

“Uuuugh,” Karkat grumbles. A shudder goes through Gamzee.

 

“Stay put, we can’t blow our cover yet,” you hiss. He growls. You punch the gunshot wound you gave him a few hours ago. He grunts and slaps your stitches.

 

“Where are we?” Karkat growls. He sounds funny…kinda nasally. Broken nose, maybe. “Why, by the Mother Grub’s most flatulent orifices, am I here with Strider of all people?”

 

“You’re a detective, Detective, why don’t you figure it out?” Slick sniggers. You concentrate on the label on the crate, even though your head is swimming with pain. _Siding_. Well, that’s no help.

 

“Where’s…” Dirk sounds woozy. Your stomach works itself into knots. “Where’s Jane?”

 

Karkat swears. “You set it up like the Hansons, didn’t you?”

 

Bravo. You clearly don’t give him enough credit. He worked it out much faster than you yourself did. Then again, you were busy aggressing an out-of-control troll.

 

“Admirin’ the handiwork there, cop?” Hearts giggles

 

“Aw, man, aren’t you boys in for a good surprise!” Slick sneers. You chance a peek through a gap in the crates. Karkat and Dirk are tied back-to-back in folding chairs, with a cheap one-bulb light swinging overhead. It’s so predictable you could throw up. Hearts and Slick are on either side of them, making their best “evil bad guys” faces. Clubs is a little ways off, staring vacantly into space. Diamonds is leaning against a crate, cleaning a formidable-looking old Tommy gun.

 

“Need to take out Droog first,” you breathe. “He’s packing the heaviest artillery.”

 

“You leave that to me, sis,” Gamzee breathes, and he slinks off on silent feet. You bite your lip, but let him go.

 

“— _splat!_ ” Slick cackles, in the middle of a no-doubt gruesome description of how he imagines your demise went. “Chunks of skull that-a-way! Arm over there! And _waaaaay_ up on the ceiling fan, some guts!”

 

Dirk’s composure is as it ever was—admirably steely. Karkat, on the other hand, is turning cherry-red and looks like he wants to simultaneously vomit and tear Slick apart with his bare hands. You keep an eye on Diamonds Droog. To your immense pleasure, he disappears soundlessly over the crate, gun and all, with a _crack_ to the back of the head that’s drowned out by Hearts’ guffaws. You worriedly look to Clubs, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. Good.

 

“Aw, man, boss, that was a good one,” Hearts giggles. You think he’s laying it on a little thick, but then, it might be bothering him that Dirk’s stoic stare hasn’t broken yet. In fact, Dirk looks so put-together you yourself are starting to feel a little put-out.

 

“Now what?” John says.

 

There’s a very audible _rrriiippp_ , and Diamonds Droog’s head goes flying over the side of the crates, hitting Slick right in the face. Well…that’s one way to proceed.

 

“Over there!” Hearts points in the general direction, and then yells as the rest of Droog’s body hits him. Hearts grabs a nearby gun—you can’t tell what kind it is, but it looks big—and empties an entire clip into the crates, all the while Slick bawling at him to cut it out.

 

“Don’t waste yer ammo, you big lug, just get over there and solve the problem!” Slick hisses, the spits. “Ugh, got his blood in my mouth…”

 

“I’ll go, too!” Clubs says cheerfully. “Hearts might need backup!”

 

He scurries off, and there’s a low, throaty laugh followed by a _honk_. It echoes around the warehouse.

 

“I know you’re in here, you rat, so where are ya?” Hearts growls.

 

“Jane, now’s our chance,” John tilts his head towards Slick, who is still spitting. “We can take him!”

 

You grin.

 

“Ladies first,” John grins back.

 

For your first appearance, you shoot Slick right in the kneecap. He goes down screaming and swearing.

 

John rushes him while you aim for Dirk and Karkat, who is looking very much like he’s going to lose it. After a moment of consideration, John brings his sledgehammer down with impressive power onto Spades Slick’s robotic arm. He howls louder. A high-pitched squeal and the echo of clubs against carapace announces the untimely end of Clubs Deuce. You shove Li’l Seb halfway into its holster and work on the knots.

 

“Karkat, claws, please,” you say after a few frustrated minutes. Karkat swallows hard, scrabbles a little against the ropes, and with some wriggling from Dirk manages to get them both free. There’s a yelp, and Karkat goes very pale.

 

“Go,” you say, and he takes off like a shot. John, meanwhile, has his foot planted over Spades Slick’s back and has a very cold, distant look on his face that unsettles you.

 

“Are you hurt?” you murmur to Dirk, noting the matted patch of hair turned dark with dried blood. He touches the patch, winces, and shrugs.

 

“Had worse,” he grunts. “Got a blade on you?”

 

“Can’t say I do,” you shrug, then spot a battle axe (really? A battle axe? Who just has a battle axe lying around?). “There’s one. Might be a little heavy, but it’s sharp.”

 

Dirk spots it, staggers a little in walking to it, and picks it up, hefting it in his hands. He swings it a few times and then shrugs.

 

“It’ll have to do,” he sighs. His eyes widen, and you realize what’s wrong when a fist collides with the side of your head and you are sent sprawling. Yeah, it’s not like you weren’t in pain already…ow…

 

There’s a growl, a roar, and a sickening, meaty _crunch_ , and quite suddenly you and Hearts Boxcars are looking eye-to-eye. Only he’s upside-down. Rather, his head is. You have some of his blood on your shirt. The broken-off shaft of the battle-axe suddenly stabs right through the head, and Dirk lifts it like a standard, impassive and hard as a robot. You practically swoon with how pale you suddenly feel.

 

“That’s all of ‘em,” Karkat grunts, limping back onto the scene with a dazed Gamzee leaning on him. Gamzee has rich indigo blood running down the side of his face, but his expression mirrors how you feel. Dirk discards the stabbed head and helps you to your feet. You wince and feel very dizzy.

 

“What do we do with this one, then?” John frowns, grinding his heel a little deeper into Slick’s back. He wheezes.

 

“Where’re my…” Karkat mumbles, patting himself down, and swears. “I don’t have my handcuffs on me.”

 

“Who says we’re gonna need ‘em?” you say softly, walking up to stand across from John, looking down at Spades Slick. You feel horribly calm. “It’d be self-defense. No one here would say it wasn’t deserved.”

 

“Jane,” Dirk says, but he sounds very far-away. You’re looking at the carapace, who seems very skinny and ridiculous, all of a sudden. You’re aware of the tightening of John’s fingers around his hammer and the familiar weight of Li’l Seb at your hip, of the wheezing coming from Slick’s lungs and the pieces of metal that once were his arm. Up-close…he’s not quite the nightmare you’ve been dreaming about all these years. He seems very small.

 

You root your toe underneath his torso and flip him over, once John moves his foot; it goes right back down onto his chest. Slick bares his bloody teeth at you both.

 

“Go on, then,” he hisses. “Kill me. Killed everybody else, might as well not be picky!”

 

John leans on his foot, and Slick sputters. You don’t scowl or glare. You’re ice.

 

“There’s one thing I don’t get, Slick,” you say softly. “Why him?”

 

He looks at you blankly. “Huh?”

 

“Why our dad?” John clarifies.

 

“Your…what, now?”

 

He doesn’t even remember.

 

Your urge to kill rushes out of you in a whoosh. You feel empty. John’s eyes meet yours, and you know, in that moment, you feel the same. There’d be no point in exacting revenge on a man who doesn’t even remember what it was he did.

 

“Six years ago, you murdered James Egbert by way of stabbing,” you say hollowly. “He was our father.” You tear your eyes away. You don’t want to look at him anymore. “Do we have rope?”

 

Dirk hogties Slick and John carries him outside while you wait for the backup Karkat called on your cell phone. You fuss a little over Dirk until the other cars arrive, and you watch Spades Slick be forced into the back of a cruiser and the rest of the Midnight Crew be carried out in body bags. When they all drive away you close your eyes and sigh. You are very tired.

 

Dirk scoops you up and tucks you against his chest, situating himself into the passenger-side seat with you in his lap. Gamzee and Karkat stretch out in the backseat. John drives you all home—first, dropping off the trolls at Karkat’s hive, then back to your apartment.

 

You fall asleep before you get there and wake up only briefly when Dirk shifts you around to situate you both in your bed.

 

“Jane?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You did it.”

 

You sigh, mostly asleep.

 

“Yep. It’s finally over.”

 

==>

 

“Promise to keep in touch,” you say reproachfully. You’re at the bus station, and John is going back home.

 

“’Course!” John grins. “Gotta keep an eye on my crazy big sis, right?”

 

The bus is coming down the road. You pull him in for another hug and hiss a little as the action irritates your back. Darn it, you thought you were healed already!

 

“Take it easy, Jane,” John laughs. “Love you.”

 

“Love you too, you big doofus,” you sniff, wiping your eyes. “Don’t let that troll girlfriend of yours take advantage of you, okay?”

 

“She wouldn’t dare,” John winks. “I’m a better gambler anyway.”

 

The bus pulls up, and you give him one last hug.

 

“It’ll be okay, Jane,” he murmurs into your ear. “No way Slick’s getting away with anything. You finally stopped him.”

 

“ _We_ finally stopped him,” you correct him, and ruffle his hair. “Call me when you make it back, okay?”

 

“Aye-aye, Janie,” John smiles. He gets on the bus, and you walk back to where Dirk’s leaning against his Scion, waiting for you.

 

“Home, madame?” he says easily. You grin.

 

“Home, Jeeves.”

 

You collapse onto the couch with a sigh when you make it back to the apartment, and right as you kick off your shoes your phone goes off. Dirk snatches it out of your hands.

 

“Dirk!”

 

“Hello, you’ve reached the phone of Jane Crocker,” Dirk intones. “Jane can’t come to solve your problems right now, because she is injured and needs rest. Please take the nearest exit to No One Caresville or send us an email. Thank you.” He hangs up, then turns off your phone.

 

“Dirk, what if that was a paying customer?” you protest, then squeak as Dirk slides underneath you and stretches out on the couch.

 

“Don’t care,” he says in a sing-song voice. “You irritated the wound when you went charging to my rescue. Gotta let it heal.”

 

You pout, propping up your chin on your arms, which are crossed over his chest. He slides his shades up on top of his head and smiles.

 

“I think we’ve had enough adventure for a while, anyway,” he says gently. “We’re set for at least a few weeks.”

 

“I don’t like wearing our funds down to the bare bones,” you inform him.

 

“And I don’t like it when you get shot, stabbed, punched, and otherwise injured,” Dirk counters.

 

“Touché,” you sigh as he kneads his knuckles over your lower back. Not that you’re complaining, but…lately…it almost feels to you like you and Dirk are moving into different territory here. You’re not sure how you feel about that.

 

He seems to sense your mood change. “What’s up?”

 

You bite your lip, then lean forward and kiss him.

 

He tenses, but after a second relaxes again, and he turns his head slightly so your noses aren’t quite so uncomfortably pressed. Your whole body starts thrumming.

 

However, when his tongue swipes your lip you break away, laughing.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Dirk smirks, shifting you over a little.

 

“Yeah…maybe one day,” you shrug. “Right now…I don’t think we need that, do you?”

 

“Nope,” he shakes his head, and it makes you happy, somehow, that he doesn’t shoot down the idea of “someday”. You know you do feel a little seed of something very like what the trolls call “flushed”, deep down in some hidden corner of your heart, but as Dirk starts humming and making his chest vibrate while tracing circles into your back…you’re not ready yet. Probably never will be. Because this, right here? You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

 

The pale quadrant always was a little different for humans. It’s harder to grasp, on the whole, without edging into romantic love. Maybe that little touch is exactly the right thing, maybe it’s going to spell a disastrous end one day, but right now Dirk Strider is your moirail and you would do just about anything to keep him safe.

 

That’s how the pale is supposed to work, after all.

 

==>Jane: Be Detective Vantas

 

Your name is Detective Karkat Vantas, and the skinny little carapace in front of you has caused you more trouble than you can possibly take enough Excedrin for in the course of the past few years. He’s not stopping now by grinning cheekily at you.

 

“Well, hello, Detective, you’re looking healthy today,” he laughs. “Want me to fix that for you?”

 

You growl in your throat and throw down an old, dogeared file, slapping it open and riffling for a picture.

 

“Six years ago, you murdered this man,” you say, sliding a picture of James Egbert across the table in Slick’s direction. He leans over, squinting with his one good eye. “I wanna know why.”

 

“What’s it to you, kid, it was forever ago,” he yawns. “Can’t remember.”

 

You tap your claws on the tabletop and give him a flat stare. “I’m not so pan-dead to think you don’t remember _something_ about this murder. He’s the grandson of Betty Crocker, for gog’s sake.”

 

Slick frowns, then gets a good look at the picture.

 

“Y’know what?” he muses. “Yeah...yeah, I remember this guy. Egbert, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yes, I just said that,” you say tiredly. “What do you remember about him?”

 

“Not much,” he shrugs. “Seemed like a good guy. Makin’ cookies or something.” He taps the picture. “This guy, though…bought and paid for, way I remember it. Client wanted to be all anonymous, but I don’t work anonymous, see? Anonymous can slit yer pipe without lookin’, what I always say.”

 

“Who paid for the hit?” you ask, and your blood-pusher starts thumping.

 

“Well, you said it, didn’t ya?” Slick shrugs. “Wassername on the street…Batterwitch? Yeah, goes by Batterwitch, if I remember right. Old troll. Old. Pinkish kinda blood.” He scratches his chin again, a sly smile on his face. “Was her idea to start up the biz with Little Miss Detective, matter of fact. Paid good money for the whole shindig.” He leers. “But you already knew that much, didn’tcha?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sniff, but it’s not quite as disdainful as you were aiming for.

 

“She’s got her tentacles in everywhere, kid,” Slick says casually. “Way I figure it, Janie Crocker wouldn’ta not known who put the hit out on her old man and stirred up the new mess with herself unless someone was covering it up from the start.”

 

You retrieve the picture and slam the file shut. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Slick.”

 

“’ey, ‘ey, ‘ey, what’m I gonna get fer that?” he cries. You turn and bare your teeth in what you hope is a very sinister smile.

 

“Well, that’s interesting, here I thought I was already being merciful by _not_ slamming your head into the table until one of you cracks down the middle,” you say pleasantly. He spits.

 

“You don’t scare me, kid. Squealed like a wriggler in that warehouse, didn’tcha?”

 

You roll your eyes and walk out of the interrogation chamber, but your insides are ice.

 

It’d be smart to bury this down so far no one will ever find it again, least of all Jane. She’s just starting to move on. This would cut in an entirely different way, and then you’d have to personally choke yourself on your own innards, if Strider doesn’t beat you to it. Which he might. Digging into this means digging into your own past, and if there’s one thing you want to keep a good tight lid on it’s that.

 

You return the file to the archives and lock them up tight. You don’t know why you thought that was a good idea, or why you wanted Slick to spell it out for you. You have all the pieces in your hands already. It’s just a matter of putting them together.

 

There’s a sibilant hiss, and every fluid you possess turns to ice and piss.

 

“Detective,” the Batterwitch purrs from the shadows (it’s not really her, just a projection, you tell yourself, because if she can melt through walls now you will _lose it_ ), “I think it’s time we had another _chat_.”

 

You grit your teeth against the chill slithering across your skin and wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow. So there's another one. Um.
> 
> First and foremost, the Hansons' murder idea came from my favorite Sherlock-with-a-female-John Watson fic of all time, The Skeleton Winter, by branwyn (and she got it from The Dancing Men by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle).
> 
> Secondly, this fic was largely a practice in making parallelisms; if anyone can find all of them, I will be surprised, because I threw in a bunch of them and I don't think they all make sense.
> 
> If you have any questions or concerns, or spot something wrong with the fic, let me know! :D Thank you for reading!


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